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casino at Monte Carlo was that a third of the players here were Chinamen and the girls were all dressed for mighty warm weather.
    “See that big Chinaman in the corner with his back to the wall?” whispered Harvey, gesturing to an ornery-looking feller sitting at a high-stakes poker table. “He's Lo Chung. He owns the place.” He pointed to the others at the table. “That's Bet-A-Million Reynolds, over there is Sir Reginald Thurmund, and that little guy next to Lo Chung is Gerhardt Guenther, the German ambassador.” He sighed. “Must be fifty million dollars sitting at that one table.”
    “They got a privy up here?” I asked as one of the hostesses passed by, and she pointed it out to me. I told Harvey to stay put, then went off by myself, pulled out a handkerchief, folded it into a nice neat square, folded Cornwall's money over it, and then slapped a rubber band around the whole thing, so it looked like I was walking around with maybe forty thousand pounds of cash rather than four hundred.
    Then I went back out onto the floor and rejoined Harvey, who was getting a little nervous in the presence of all that money. We wandered around the room, exchanged pleasantries with a couple of hostesses, stopped to watch the action at the roulette wheel and the craps table, and finally wound up at the fan-tan game, where a Greek and a Korean were having a contest to see who could go broke first. I whispered to Harvey to go back to the rickshaw and that I'd meet him there in just a couple of minutes. He looked kind of curious, but he did what I told him.
    “I do love the smell of money,” I said, turning back to the fan-tan table.
    “Perhaps you would like to join us,” suggested the Greek.
    I shook my head. “Too tame for me, brother.”
    He laughed so loud that everyone turned to see what was going on.
    “You find fan-tan tame ?” he said.
    “Yeah. It's almost as dull as poker and craps,” I said. I pulled out my bankroll, tossed it carelessly in the air and caught it a couple of times, and then stuck it back in my pocket. “Guess I'll go out looking for some real action.”
    At which point Lo Chung got up from his poker game and walked over to me.
    “Good evening, Father,” he said, bowing low.
    “As a matter of fact, it's Reverend,” I said. “The Right Reverend Lucifer Jones.”
    “It is not often that we play host to a man of the cloth,” he said. “We have a reputation as the Sin City of the Orient.”
    “Well, I'm afraid it's gonna be even less often, brother,” I said. “I like excitement when I bet.” I reached into my pocket and fiddled with my bankroll again. “Nothing all that exciting here, except maybe for that little hostess with the green eyes and dress to match.”
    “We try to accommodate all our guests, Reverend Jones,” he said, looking greedily toward my pocket. “Perhaps if you would tell me what type of gambling excites you...?”
    “Glad you asked, brother,” I said, kind of gently shoving him aside and speaking to the room at large. “Ladies and gents, I came here by rickshaw, just like a batch of you folks did—and I got forty thousand pounds that says my rickshaw puller can whip any rickshaw puller you put up against him at any distance from fifty yards to six furlongs at equal weights.”
    “Now just a minute, Reverend Jones!” said Lo Chung. “This is my gambling establishment. You cannot arrange your own transactions with my customers!”
    “Sorry, Brother Lo Chung,” I apologized. “I certainly didn't mean to step out of line. I suppose I'd best take my leave of you.”
    I walked to the head of the stairs, and then stopped and turned back to the room. “The race starts in front of the Macau Inn at nine o'clock tomorrow morning,” I said. “I'll cover any and all bets.”
    Then I ran down the stairs just before a couple of Lo Chung's bouncers could throw me down. I saw the cutest little lady serving drinks as I passed the third floor, but I didn't have time to