"Jack, do you take me to be a fool?" asks the one gentleman of the
other. "Pretty pair of horses the youth has got. How he is flogging
'em!" And they see Mr. Warrington galloping up the street, and scared
coachmen and chairmen clearing before him: presently my Lord Castlewood
is seen to enter a chair, and go his way.

Harry drives up to his own door. It was but a few yards, and those poor
horses have been beating the pavement all this while in the rain. Mr.
Gumbo is engaged at the door in conversation with a countrified-looking
lass, who trips off with a curtsey. Mr. Gumbo is always engaged with
some pretty maid or other.

"Gumbo, has Mr. Sampson been here?" asks Gumbo's master from his
driving-seat.

"No, sar. Mr. Sampson have not been here!" answers Mr. Warrington's
gentleman. Harry bids him to go upstairs and bring down a letter
addressed to Mr. Sampson.

"Addressed to Mr. Sampson? Oh yes, sir," says Mr. Gumbo, who can't read.

"A sealed letter, stupid! on the mantelpiece, in the glass!" says Harry;
and Gumbo leisurely retires to fetch that document. As soon as Harry has
it, he turns his horses' heads towards St. James's Street, and the
two gentlemen, still yawning out of the window at White's, behold the
Fortunate Youth, in an instant, back again.

As they passed out of the little tea-room where he and Lord Castlewood
had had their piquet together, Mr. Warrington had seen that several
gentlemen had entered the play-room, and that there was a bank there.
Some were already steadily at work, and had their gaming jackets on:
they kept such coats at the club, which they put on when they had a mind
to sit down to a regular night's play.

Mr. Warrington goes to the clerk's desk, pays his account of the
previous night, and, sitting down at the table, calls for fresh
counters. This has been decidedly an unlucky week with the Fortunate
Youth, and to-night is no more fortunate than previous nights have been.
He calls for more counters, and more presently. He is a little pale and
silent, though very easy and polite when talked to. But he cannot win.

At last he gets up. "Hang it! stay and mend your luck!" says Lord March,
who is sitting by his side with a heap of counters before him, green and
white. "Take a hundred of mine, and go on!"

"I have had enough for to-night, my lord," says Harry, and rises and
goes away, and eats a broiled bone in the coffee-room, and walks back to
his lodgings some time about midnight.