flowers of the Riviera. There are two ways of "doing" Monte Carlo. You
may live riotously, lose your substance at the Casino, and go home on a
free ticket supplied by the proprietors of the gambling saloons, or you
may enjoy to the utmost the keen air, magnificent scenery, fine
promenades, and excellent music--the two latter provided by the same
benevolent agency.

It is needless to say which of these alternatives appealed to Claude
Bruce. Being a rich man, it was of no consequence to him to lose a few
louis in backing the red for a five minutes' bit of excitement. Being a
sensible one, he then quitted the Casino and went for a stroll in the
gardens.Fashion, backed by the doctors, has decreed that no longer shall the northern littoral of the Mediterranean be the only haven of rest for those afflicted with pulmonary complaints. Weak-chested and consumptive people are now banished to the windless and icy altitudes of Switzerland; so of recent years a walk through Nice, Mentone, or Monte Carlo itself is not such a depressing experience as it was when every second person encountered was a hopeless invalid.

A pigeon-shooting match was in progress, and, as Bruce fell in with a friend who took a prominent part in local life, the two entered the club grounds to watch the contest.

At the moment a handsome, well-set-up young Englishman was shooting off a tie with a Russian count. A very pretty girl, with a delicate and refined beauty enhanced by a pleasant expression, was taking a most unfeminine interest in the slaughter of the pigeons by the Englishman. Her eyes spoke her thoughts. It was as if they said: "I do not want the birds to be killed, but I want a certain person to win."

Nine birds each had been grassed, and the Russian was growing impatient. The Englishman was cool, his fair backer keenly excited. The Count fired and missed his tenth. Up rose the Englishman's bird, and the girl could not restrain an impetuous "Now!" So the Englishman missed also. Amidst the buzz of comment which arose, Bruce said to his companion: "What's going on?"

"This is the final tie in the International. It is a big prize, and each man has backed himself heavily. The two are Albert Mensmore and Count Bischkoff. The girl has taken all the nerve out of Mensmore. Bar accident, he is a goner."

The cynic was right. In the thirteenth round the count alone scored, and smiled largely in response to his antagonist's quiet 

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