it was the large room in the kursaal assigned to the cercle de genève. of the two long green tables, one was deserted and in darkness, and the other, brilliantly lighted from overhanging green shades, was surrounded by a fair number of men. except at short intervals between the hands, a decorous silence prevailed, broken only by the stereotyped phrases, une carte, sept, neuf, baccara, marking the progress of the game. but when the hand was over, voices rose, and above them was heard the sharp click of the mother-of-pearl counters and the chink of gold and silver, as the croupier, in the middle of the table, opposite the banker, settled losses and gains. then the croupier,—“quarante louis dans la banque, vingt à choque tableau. faites vos jeux, messieurs. a cheval? bien, monsieur. bien ne e sharp click of the mother-of-pearl counters and the chink of gold and silver, as the croupier, in the middle of the table, opposite the banker, settled losses and gains. then the croupier,—“quarante louis dans la banque, vingt à choque tableau. faites vos jeux, messieurs. a cheval? bien, monsieur. bien ne va plus!”

and then silence again while the hand was being played.

the company was cosmopolitan; two or three elderly genevese citizens, a sprinkling of germans and russians, two or three of nondescript nationality, speaking english, french, and german with equal fluency, of the swarthy, israelitish type familiar at monte carlo and aix-les-bains, and a few english and americans. among the latter were raine and hockmaster. the american was winning heavily. when the hand had come to him, he had “passed” seven, nine, and twelve times respectively, and a little mountain of notes, fiches and gold lay before him. on a small table by his side was a tumbler of brandy and water which he replenished at intervals from the customary graduated decanter and a carafe of iced water. his cheeks were flushed and his eyes unnaturally bright, and his speech, when the croupier’s spoon deposited his winnings in front of him, was somewhat exuberant and excited.

raine, who had played very little, was neither winning nor losing. he had accompanied hockmaster, purely for the sake of distraction, intending to while away an hour or two before bedtime. the pleasant walk along the quays to and from the kursaal had also been an inducement. but he had sat there next to hockmaster for several hours, interested in the game and in his companion’s astonishing luck. for the wholesome-minded person, with a keen sense of life and a broad sympathy with its interests, there is ever a fascination in watching the chances of a gaming table. fortune seems to come down and give a private exhibition of her wheel. the great universe seems to stand still for a while, and only this microcosm to be subjected to its chances.

at last he grew tired, however, and suggested to hockmaster the reasonableness of retiring. besides, the increasing excitement of the american led him to reflect, for the first time, upon the quantity of drink that he had consumed.

“i guess i’m going to clear out all these boys,” replied hockmaster.

“in that case,” said raine, rising, “i’m going home.”

the other caught him by his coat.

“half an hour more.”

“no. i have had enough. so have you.”

“just the end of this new bank, then.”

the croupier was crying a new bank—putting it up to auction.

“la banque est aux enchères. combien la banque?”

“i’ll wait till you have had just one stake,” said raine, by way of compromise.

bids were made for the bank. ten louis, twenty louis, thirty.

“fifty,” cried hockmaster, suddenly, with his elbows on the table. raine clapped him on the shoulder.

“that’s not in the bargain.”

“a hundred,” cried a fat german at the end of the other tableau, who had been losing persistently.

“you wait if you want to see fun,” said hockmaster. “two hundred.”

murmurs began to arise. play seldom ran so high in the cercle. it was too much.

“assez, assez,” growled the genevese citizens.

but the rest of the table was athrill with excitement.

“two hundred and fifty,” cried the german.

“four hundred,” said hockmaster.

“five!” screamed the german.

“the gentleman can have that bank,” drawled hockmaster. “and i’ll go banco.”

which means that he would play one hand against the new banker for the whole amount of the bank—￡400.

there was a death-like silence. the german, looking pallid and flabby, took his seat. the stakes were deposited on the table. the croupier placed the fresh packs on the rest before the new banker. with trembling fingers the german slipped the two cards apiece to hockmaster and himself. the american allowed his cards to remain in front of him for a moment as he looked up at raine, who was standing behind him, also under the spell of the general excitement.

“if i lose this, i take the next tramcar back to chicago.”

“take up your cards,” grumbled an impatient voice.

hockmaster picked them up. they were a 6 and a 4, which making 10, according to the principles of the game where tens and multiples of ten count as nothing, were valueless.

“une carte?” asked the german.

“yes.”

“the card was an ace. the beads of perspiration formed on the american’s forehead. only a miracle could save him—that of the banker drawing tens. for if the banker’s pips totted up, subtracting multiples of ten, to any number between 2 and 9, hockmaster lost. the banker displayed his cards. two queens. the chances were now 9 to 4 in the banker’s favour. he drew a card slowly from the top. it was the ten of diamonds.

“baccara!” he gasped.

“one!” cried hockmaster, throwing down his cards.

a hubbub of eager voices arose at the sensational victory. the german retired from the table and left the room without saying a word. hockmaster wiped his forehead and stowed away the bank-notes and gold in his pockets.

“i reckon i’ve had enough too,” he exclaimed in a thick, unsteady voice. “good-night, gentlemen.”

he rose, stretched himself, laid hold of raine’s arm, and the two went out together. as they reached the front steps of the kursaal, they heard the german driving away in a cab that had been waiting.

“i wish there was another one,” said hockmaster, reeling.

the fresh night air struck him like an electric shock. he lurched heavily against raine, and laughed stupidly.

“i guess i’m as drunk as a boiled owl.” raine was surprised, angry and disgusted. the modern englishman sees nothing funny in drunkenness. if he had suspected that hockmaster was drinking to the degree of intoxication, he would have left the kursaal long before. but the motionlessness of his position and the intense excitement of the game had combined to check temporarily the effects of the alcohol. there was no help for it, however; he must give the drunken man his arm and convey him home.

they soon emerged on to the quay. it was a superb moonlit night. the lake slumbered peacefully below, the bright expanse sweeping away from the shadows of the town, scarcely broken by a ripple. at that hour not a soul was stirring. hockmaster’s excited talk struck with sharp resonance on the lonely air. as soon as he had realized his condition of leg-helplessness, he trusted to his companion’s support, and, thinking no more about it, talked volubly of the game, his winnings, his late adversary’s piteous grimace, when the only losing card he could draw turned up. then he broke out into loud laughter.

“stop that!” cried raine, somewhat savagely, jerking his arm.

hockmaster ceased, looked up at him with lack-lustre eye.

“i guess i’m drunk. let’s sit down a minute. it’s my legs that don’t realize their responsibility.”

he pitched sideways in the direction of a seat on the quay, dragging raine a step with him. raine, not sorry to be free of his weight for a few moments, agreed to sit down. perhaps the rest in the fresh air would sober him a little; at least enough to enable him to accomplish unaided the remainder of his walk home. having lit his meerschaum, raine gave himself up philosophically to the situation. it was just as pleasant and as profitable to be sitting there under the stars, in front of the magic of the lake, as to be fretting through anxious hours in his bedroom, longing for the morrow. for a time he forgot hockmaster, who sprawled silently by him, his incapable legs stretched out compass-wise, and his hands in his pockets. his mind hovered around katherine, lost itself in mingling memories of doubts and hopes; wandered back to oxford and his uncertainties, returned to geneva, to their first talk in the jardin anglais, to stray moments when they had drifted into close contact, to the glow of the first kiss, and finally settled in the gloom that her agitation that evening had spread about him. then, with a start, he remembered the american, whose silence was alarming.

“look here. you are not going to sleep!”

“all right, sonny. don’t you be alarmed,” replied hockmaster with drunken gravity. “i am all right sitting, anyway. i’ve been fixing up something in my mind, and it’s like shaving on board ship in a hurricane. say, you’re my friend, aren’t you? if you thought i was a darned skunk, you’d tell me.

“you have soaked too much brandy, my friend,” replied raine. “that doesn’t require much ‘fixing up.’ anyhow, the next time you want to go on the drink, please do it when i am not there.”

“quite right,” said hockmaster, rolling his head towards him with a portentous air. “you’re disgusted at my being drunk—so’m i—but thatsh not the question. i felt sort of mean, like the chewed end of a cigar, and i tried to gargle the feeling away. but it wasn’t my fault.”

“well, never mind,” said raine, with a smile. “don’t do it again.”

“you bet your bottom dollar i don’t. the man who puts his head twice into the divorce court deserves to be shot sitting.”

raine was startled. what was the man driving at?

“you see, i guess i ought to have married her afterwards,” continued hockmaster. “but those mines i told you of carried me down to mexico. now when a man’s got a blaze at a million of dollars he can’t afford to be fooling around after a woman. she can wait, but the dollars won’t. that’s what i was trying to fix up to tell you—as a real friend.”

“tell me to-morrow,” said raine, preparing to rise. “let us get home now.”

he had no desire to hear the tipsy details of hockmaster’s past life. but the american put detaining hands on his arm and shoulders, in familiar confidence.

“i want your opinion—i seduced her from her husband, and didn’t marry her after the divorce, and when i saw her this evening for the first time after eight years—”

raine leaped to his feet with a horrible surmise.

“what the devil are you talking about? whom do you mean?”

“yes,” said hockmaster, nodding in a melancholy way. “i thought i was a mean skunk. you are disgusted.”

raine seized him by the collar and shook him.

“answer my question—which lady do you mean?”

“oh!” said hockmaster, “of course. you don’t know. why, the sweetest, prettiest woman there, sitting next to you. i guess she was upset at seeing me.”

he went on talking. but raine heard no more. his brain was in a whirl, a nausea was at his heart. his prized meerschaum fell from his hand, and, knocking against the seat, dropped broken on to the ground; but he was unconscious of it. everything blazed before him in a livid light. a horrible repulsion from the inert, ignoble figure sprawling beneath him grew into a loathing anger. his fingers thrilled to seize the american again by the collar and shake the life out of him like a rat.

“you damned little cad—betraying her to a stranger—you infernal, drunken little cad!”

controlling his rage with a great effort, he turned, and strode away with set teeth. he heard the american’s voice calling him, but he went on.

“hallo! chetwynd!” cried hockmaster, rising with difficulty to his feet. “chetwy—ynd!”

he staggered forward a couple of paces and then fell prone. after a few ineffectual efforts to get up, he abandoned the attempt, and lay quiescent.

raine walked about fifty yards. he had heard the fall. at first it was a grim satisfaction to let him lie there—all night if need were. but then it struck him with unpleasant suddenness that hockmaster was carrying about his person an immense sum of money in notes and gold. to leave him to the risk of being robbed and perhaps knocked on the head was impossible. he conquered his repugnance and turned, back.

“get up.”

“eh? all right. i think i’ll go to shleep.”

raine lifted him to his feet, shook him to a degree of soberness, and with one arm around him, marched again homewards.

he loathed the man. to be condemned to hug him close to his person set jarring every nerve of physical repulsion. raine did not handle him tenderly in that moonlight walk. whilst sitting on the bench, the american had been coherent in his speech, but his fall and resignation to slumber on the pavement had relaxed the tension of his mind, and he grew maudlin and inarticulate. now and then he remonstrated with his protector for hurrying him along so fast. in fact, raine, in his passionate desire to shake himself free of the incubus, was unconsciously exerting his great strength almost to carry him bodily.

in the middle of the bridge, hockmaster laughed softly to himself.

“to think i should see her again. dear little kitty.”

a horrible wave of disgust swept through raine. he gripped the man viciously.

“damn you! if you mention her name again, i’ll pitch you into the lake.”

“that would be a pity,” murmured the american in a panting murmur. “i can’t swim.”

raine increased his pace, so that speech became for the american a physical impossibility. in the midst of his disgust came the memory of the last time he had come homewards across that bridge. then, too, he had hurried blindly, anxious to reach the pension. the cynical irony of the parallel smote him. a clock struck two as they reached the corner of the street. hockmaster was limply happy, comfortably breathless. raine propped him against the wall as he waited for the concierge to open to his ring. the door was soon swung open, and raine dragged the american up the dark staircase. when they reached the latter’s bedroom, he flung him in unceremoniously and left him to himself.

then, when he was alone, rid of the man’s body, raine pieced the story together more calmly. it was sickening. his fair pure katherine to have given herself to that little drunken cad, to have wrecked her life for him—it was sickening.

there are times in a man’s career when the poetry of life seems to be blotted out, and its whole story nothing but ignoble prose.