"Yes! I'm not mistaken at all! It's the same woman!" whispered the tall, good-looking young Englishman in a well-cut navy suit as he stood with his friend, a man some ten years older than himself, at one of the roulette tables at Monte Carlo, the first on the right on entering the room -- that one known to habitual gamblers as "The Suicide's Table." "Are you quite certain?" asked his friend.
"Positive. I should know her again anywhere."
"She's very handsome. And look, too, by Jove! -- how she is winning!"
"Yes. But let's get away. She might recognize me," exclaimed the younger man anxiously. "Ah! If I could only induce her to disclose what she knows about my poor father's mysterious end then we might clear up the mystery."
"I'm afraid, if all we hear is true about her, Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo will never do that . . ."