"I took a seat in the Casino garden, overlooking the sea.
'Sort of thing,' I found myself murmuring, 'might happen once in
a blue moon,' and with that was aware that a sort of blue
moonlight was indeed bathing the garden, though the moon's
reflection lay yellow enough across the still Mediterranean.
[Here, for description, turn up Matt. Arnold's _A Southern
Night_: possibly still copyrighted.]
"Farrell came out. He spotted me at once; for to help the moon,
as well as to dispel the heavy scent of the gaming-room, I was
lighting a cigar. He took a couple of turns on the terrace and
halted in front of me. His manner was nervous.
"'Excuse me, Professor--' he began.
"'Excuse me, Mr. Farrell,' I corrected him; 'I am a Professor no
longer. You may call me Doctor Foe, if you like. . . . Did
Number 17 win a third time?'
"'I--I fancy not," he stammered. 'To tell the truth, your sudden
appearance here, when I supposed you to be in London--and at
Monte Carlo, of all places--But perhaps you are a devotee of the
fickle goddess? Men of learning,' he floundered on, 'find
relaxation--complete change of interest.
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