"Then, how can we carry out our plan?" Basil asked.
"The wheels are not taken away entirely," Edouard went on; "they are simply changed from table to table. The prepared wheel will have some distinguishing mark by which you will know it. We must think that out; it must be some very slight thing--a knot in the wood, a mere scratch on the outside, would do."
A dry little chuckle came from Brother Charles.
"We are getting on! We are getting on!" he said, with a grotesque mirth. "My brother, what is to prevent us preparing three wheels? They should be 'tuned'--as Monsieur Deschamps calls it--exactly alike. Each will be marked in some way, so that our friends can distinguish them from the unprepared wheels. There are twelve roulette wheels in all used in the Salle des Jeux."
"_Bien!_" Edouard replied; "your brain moves quickly. By this means our friends will be able to move from table to table as they wish."
"And I would suggest," Deschamps broke in, "that we do not play for more than a week in all. In a week's time we shall be able to win an enormous sum of money, without unduly exciting suspicion. Great runs of luck, I have observed, generally last for about seven or eight days. If, as Monsieur Charles suggests, we move from table to table, a week should be sufficient. We can go away with enormous sums, and no one will be any the wiser."
"And another thing," Edouard Carnet said, "which of you is going to be the actual operator of the telegraphic instrument, and which the player at the tables?"
"Oh, I'd much better play," Deschamps answered, "and Basil work the instrument."
Both the Carnets shook their heads at this.
"No," they said together, "that will be unwise. Monsieur Gregoire is typically English. It is always best for a foreigner to make these great coups. Moreover, the luck of the English and the Americans is proverbial. Monsieur Gregoire must be thought an English millionaire. No one thinks it strange when a millionaire wins another million! But, to safeguard the future, it would be as well that monsieur were disguised."
Basil shook his head. "Disguised!" he cried. "Oh, I don't like that idea at all!"
"It is necessary," Edouard Carnet said firmly; "but all that you have to do, monsieur, is to shave off that blonde moustache, darken your skin a little, and wear pince-nez. It is only ordinary caution, after all. When you return with the spoils of war and grow your moustache again, nobody will ever connect you with the winner of millions upon the Côte d'Azur."