Page:Vance--Terence O'Rourke.djvu/24

 To O'Rourke, new from the freshness of the spring air, the atmosphere was stifling and depressing—hot, fetid, lifeless though charged with the hopes and fears of those absorbed men who clustered around the board, sowing its painted face with coin and bills, hanging breathlessly on the words of the croupier, as he relentlessly garnered the harvest of lost illusions.

The Irishman was not yet ready to bet, having counted on the room being more crowded, forgetful of the early hour. He had but one play to make, the lowest the house permitted—five francs,—and it was so insignificant a sum that the man felt some embarrassment about offering it, fearing that it might attract sneering comment. In a crowd it might have passed, especially if he lost—as, in all likelihood, he would.

He summoned an attendant and ordered a cigar—"on the house"—to make time; and while he was waiting, eyed the man opposite him, at the farther end of the table.

The latter was young, weary and worried, if his facial expression went for aught; he played feverishly, scattering gold pieces over the cloth—as often as not, probably, betting against himself. His face was flushed, for he had been drinking more than could have been good for his judgment; and O'Rourke fancied he recognized in him the youthful lieutenant of a cavalry troop then quartered near Paris.

Abruptly a man flung into the room, as if in anger; at the door he paused to collect himself, scanning each player narrowly, and finally chose a seat near the lieutenant.

"Hello!" thought O'Rourke. "So you're back so soon! I wonder—well, none of me business, I suppose."

It was the man with the beard whom he had noticed leaving the gambling house in such apparent haste, and not so very long since.