It was the large room in the Kursaal assigned to the Cercle de Genève. Of the two long green tables, one was deserted and in darkness, and the other, brilliantly lighted from overhanging green shades, was surrounded by a fair number of men. Except at short intervals between the hands, a decorous silence prevailed, broken only by the stereotyped phrases, une carte, sept, neuf, baccara, marking the progress of the game. But when the hand was over, voices rose, and above them was heard the sharp click of the mother-of-pearl counters and the chink of gold and silver, as the croupier, in the middle of the table, opposite the banker, settled losses and gains. Then the croupier,—“Quarante louis dans la banque, vingt à choque tableau. Faites vos jeux, messieurs. A cheval? Bien, monsieur. Bien ne e sharp click of the mother-of-pearl counters and the chink of gold and silver, as the croupier, in the middle of the table, opposite the banker, settled losses and gains. Then the croupier,—“Quarante louis dans la banque, vingt à choque tableau. Faites vos jeux, messieurs. A cheval? Bien, monsieur. Bien ne va plus!”

And then silence again while the hand was being played.

The company was cosmopolitan; two or three elderly Genevese citizens, a sprinkling of Germans and Russians, two or three of nondescript nationality, speaking English, French, and German with equal fluency, of the swarthy, Israelitish type familiar at Monte Carlo and Aix-les-Bains, and a few English and Americans. Among the latter were Raine and Hockmaster. The American was winning heavily. When the hand had come to him, he had “passed” seven, nine, and twelve times respectively, and a little mountain of notes, fiches and gold lay before him. On a small table by his side was a tumbler of brandy and water which he replenished at intervals from the customary graduated decanter and a carafe of iced water. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes unnaturally bright, and his speech, when the croupier’s spoon deposited his winnings in front of him, was somewhat exuberant and excited.

Raine, who had played very little, was neither winning nor losing. He had accompanied Hockmaster, purely for the sake of distraction, intending to while away an hour or two before bedtime. The pleasant walk along the quays to and from the Kursaal had also been an inducement. But he had sat there next to Hockmaster for several hours, interested in the game and in his companion’s astonishing luck. For the wholesome-minded person, with a keen sense of life and a broad sympathy with its interests, there is ever a fascination in watching the chances of a gaming table. Fortune seems to come down and give a private exhibition of her wheel. The great universe seems to stand still for a while, and only this microcosm to be subjected to its chances.

At last he grew tired, however, and suggested to Hockmaster the reasonableness of retiring. Besides, the increasing excitement of the American led him to reflect, for the first time, upon the quantity of drink that he had consumed.

“I guess I’m going to clear out all these boys,” replied Hockmaster.

“In that case,” said Raine, rising, “I’m going home.”

The other caught him by his coat.

“Half an hour more.”

“No. I have had enough. So have you.”

“Just the end of this new bank, then.”

The croupier was crying a new bank—putting it up to auction.

“La banque est aux enchères. Combien la banque?”

“I’ll wait till you have had just one stake,” said Raine, by way of compromise.

Bids were made for the bank. Ten louis, twenty louis, thirty.

“Fifty,” cried Hockmaster, suddenly, with his elbows on the table. Raine clapped him on the shoulder.

“That’s not in the bargain.”

“A hundred,” cried a fat German at the end of the other tableau, who had been losing persistently.

“You wait if you want to see fun,” said Hockmaster. “Two hundred.”

Murmurs began to arise. Play seldom ran so high in the cercle. It was too much.

“Assez, assez,” growled the Genevese citizens.

But the rest of the table was athrill with excitement.

“Two hundred and fifty,” cried the German.

“Four hundred,” said Hockmaster.

“Five!” screamed the German.

“The gentleman can have that bank,” drawled Hockmaster. “And I’ll go banco.”

Which means that he would play one hand against the new banker for the whole amount of the bank—￡400.

There was a death-like silence. The German, looking pallid and flabby, took his seat. The stakes were deposited on the table. The croupier placed the fresh packs on the rest before the new banker. With trembling fingers the German slipped the two cards apiece to Hockmaster and himself. The American allowed his cards to remain in front of him for a moment as he looked up at Raine, who was standing behind him, also under the spell of the general excitement.

“If I lose this, I take the next tramcar back to Chicago.”

“Take up your cards,” grumbled an impatient voice.

Hockmaster picked them up. They were a 6 and a 4, which making 10, according to the principles of the game where tens and multiples of ten count as nothing, were valueless.

“Une carte?” asked the German.

“Yes.”

“The card was an ace. The beads of perspiration formed on the American’s forehead. Only a miracle could save him—that of the banker drawing tens. For if the banker’s pips totted up, subtracting multiples of ten, to any number between 2 and 9, Hockmaster lost. The banker displayed his cards. Two queens. The chances were now 9 to 4 in the banker’s favour. He drew a card slowly from the top. It was the ten of diamonds.

“Baccara!” he gasped.

“One!” cried Hockmaster, throwing down his cards.

A hubbub of eager voices arose at the sensational victory. The German retired from the table and left the room without saying a word. Hockmaster wiped his forehead and stowed away the bank-notes and gold in his pockets.

“I reckon I’ve had enough too,” he exclaimed in a thick, unsteady voice. “Good-night, gentlemen.”

He rose, stretched himself, laid hold of Raine’s arm, and the two went out together. As they reached the front steps of the Kursaal, they heard the German driving away in a cab that had been waiting.

“I wish there was another one,” said Hockmaster, reeling.

The fresh night air struck him like an electric shock. He lurched heavily against Raine, and laughed stupidly.

“I guess I’m as drunk as a boiled owl.” Raine was surprised, angry and disgusted. The modern Englishman sees nothing funny in drunkenness. If he had suspected that Hockmaster was drinking to the degree of intoxication, he would have left the Kursaal long before. But the motionlessness of his position and the intense excitement of the game had combined to check temporarily the effects of the alcohol. There was no help for it, however; he must give the drunken man his arm and convey him home.

They soon emerged on to the quay. It was a superb moonlit night. The lake slumbered peacefully below, the bright expanse sweeping away from the shadows of the town, scarcely broken by a ripple. At that hour not a soul was stirring. Hockmaster’s excited talk struck with sharp resonance on the lonely air. As soon as he had realized his condition of leg-helplessness, he trusted to his companion’s support, and, thinking no more about it, talked volubly of the game, his winnings, his late adversary’s piteous grimace, when the only losing card he could............