talking with one
another in the intimate, desultory fashion in which people talk who meet
daily in pursuit of some common interest or hobby.

And then, all at once, Sylvia Bailey saw that among them, but standing a
little apart, was the Count--was not his name de Virieu?

He turned round, and as he saw her she thought that a look of surprise,
almost of annoyance, flitted over his impassive face. Then he moved away
from where he could see her.

A peculiar-looking old gentleman, who seemed on kindly terms with
everyone in the room, pulled a large turnip watch out of his pocket. "It
is nearly half-past one!" he exclaimed fussily. "Surely, it is time that
we began! Who takes the Bank to-day?"

"I will," said the Comte de Virieu, coming forward.

Five minutes later play was in full swing. Sylvia did not in the least
understand the game of Baccarat, and she would have been surprised indeed
had she been told that the best account of it ever written is that which
describes it as "neither a recreation nor an intellectual exercise, but
simply a means for the rapid exchange of money well suited to persons of
impatient temperament."

With fascinated eyes, Sylvia watched Anna put down her gold pieces on the
green cloth. Then she noted the cards as they were dealt out, and
listened, it must be admitted, uncomprehendingly, to the mysterious words
which told how the game was going. Still she sympathised very heartily
with her friend when Anna's gold pieces were swept away, and she rejoiced
as heartily when gold was added to Anna's little pile.

They both stood, refusing the seats which were pressed upon them.

Suddenly Sylvia Bailey, looking up from the green cloth, saw the eyes of
the man who held the Bank fixed full upon her.

The Comte de Virieu did not gaze at the young English woman with the
bold, impersonal stare to which she had become accustomed--his glance was
far more thoughtful, questioning, and in a sense kindly. But his eyes
seemed to pierce her through and through, and suddenly her heart began
to beat very fast. Yet no colour came into her face--indeed, Sylvia grew
pale.

She looked down at the table, but even so she remained conscious of that
piercing gaze turned on her, and with some surprise she found herself
keenly visualising the young man's face.

Alone among all the people in the room, the Comte de Virieu looked as if
he lived a more or less outdoor life; his face was tanned, his blue eyes
were very b