t-quarante room.

The story sounded rather like a fairy tale, but the enormous crowd round
the centre of interest, and the comparatively slack business being done
at other tables, proved its truth. None of the newcomers, even the
tallest, could see, but they could hear, and they could feel the thrill
from the inner circle.

"And now, Mademoiselle? What will you do? Remember, your luck can't go
on forever," murmured Madame d'Ambre, anxious to divide the spoil, which
might yet vanish like fairy gold.

"I--I will take twenty-four again, and everything round it."

Many players who had money left, and could reach to put on their stakes,
also chose twenty-four. And twenty-four came up. This was historic! No
one but the Grand Duke Michael and the few famous punters of the world
had such persistent and consecutive luck.

A chef de table in a high chair stood up and unobtrusively beckoned a
footman hovering on the far fringe of the crowd. Three minutes later,
with equal unobtrusiveness, more money was brought, lest the supply of
the table should run low. Few noticed, or knew that anything unusual had
happened, with the exception of the play; but Madame d'Ambre had been
hoping for and expecting something of the sort.

"They are afraid you will break the bank," she said, in a stage-whisper
not meant to be wasted. Those near her who understood French glanced up
quickly. Croupiers smiled and said nothing. A murmur went round the
table, and flowed like the rippling circles from a stone dropped in a
pond, to the crowd which ringed it in.

"What do you mean?" asked Mary.

"Oh, the bank does not really break! They do not even stop play in these
days. But they send for more money lest it be needed. Ah, the colossal
compliment!"

The pride in Mary's heart was like a stab of pain, almost unbearable in
its intensity. But suddenly, as if the current of her thought had been
broken, her inspiration seemed gone. The Something was no longer there,
telling her where to stake. She wished to play again, but felt at sea,
without a rudder. Her unconscious vanity rebelled against risking loss
at this table of which she had been the queen, the idol.

She rose, pale and suddenly tired. "I won't play any more," she said, in
a little voice, like a child's.

"Oh, why?" asked the young man with the straw-coloured hair.

"I don't know why," she answered. "Only I don't want to."

"Your money!" exclaimed Madame d'Ambre. "We must have all the gol