his moustache
_en croc_, and his shoebrush hair, I have rarely beheld a more
sensual-looking desperado.

"But gentlemen," said he, "I see no objection whatever to Monsieur
playing the hand."

"Naturally," retorted a voice, "since it would be to your advantage."

The raven in the dinner-jacket commanded silence.

"Gentlemen, I decide that, according to the rules of the game, Monsieur
is entitled to play the hand."

"Bravo!" exclaimed one or two of my friend's supporters.

"_C'est idiot_!" growled the malcontents.

"_Messieurs, faites vos jeux_!" cried the croupier.

The stakes were laid, the banker looked around, estimating the
comparative values of the two tableaux. Anastasius had backed his hand
with a pile of louis. To encourage him, and to conciliate the hostile
punt, I threw down a hundred-franc note.

"_Les jeux sont faits? Rien ne va plus_."

The banker dealt, two cards to each tableau, two to himself. Anastasius,
trembling with nervous excitement, stretched out a palsied little fist
towards the cards. He drew them towards him, face downwards, peeped at
them in the most approved manner, and in a husky voice called for an
extra card.

The card dealt face upwards was a five. The banker turned up his own
cards, a two and a four, making a point of six. Naturally he stood,
Anastasius did nothing.

"Show your cards--show your cards!" cried several voices.

He turned over the two cards originally dealt to him. They were a king
and a nine, making the natural nine, the highest point, and he had
actually asked for another card. It was the unforgivable sin. The five
that had been dealt to him brought his point to four. There was a roar
of indignation. Men with violent faces rose and cursed him, and shook
their fists at him. Others clamoured that the coup was ineffective. They
were not going to be at the mercy of an idiot who knew nothing of the
game. The hand must be dealt over again.

"_Jamais de la vie_!" shouted the banker.

"_Le coup est bon_!" cried the raven in authority, and the croupier's
spoon hovered over the tableau. But the horse-headed Englishman clutched
the two louis he had staked. He was damned, and a great many other
things, if he would lose his money that way. The raven in the
dinner-jacket darted round, and bending over him, caught him by the
wrist. Two or three others grabbed their stakes, and swore they would
not pay. The banker rose and went to the rescue of his gains. There
was scre