Ina Rose would not have felt flattered had she heard the statement.  The fan Piers had promised to send her had duly arrived from Paris with a brief—­very brief—­note from him, requesting her acceptance of it.  She had written in reply a letter which she had been at some pains to compose, graciously accepting the gift and suggesting that an account of any adventures that befell him would be received by her with interest.  She added that, a spell of frost having put an end to the hunting, life at Wardenhurst had become extremely flat, and she had begun to envy Piers in his exile.  Her father was talking of going to Mentone for a few weeks, and wanted her to accompany him.  But she was not sure that she would care for it.  What did Piers think?

When Piers did eventually read the letter, he smiled at this point,—­a smile that was not altogether good to see.  He was just going out to the Casino with Crowther.  The latter had gone to fetch a coat, and he had occupied the few moments of waiting with Ina’s letter.

He was still smiling over the open page when Crowther joined him; but he folded the letter at once, and they went out together.

“Have you had any luck at the tables?” Crowther asked.

“None,” said Piers.  “At least I won, eventually, but Fate, in the form of a powdered and bedizened female snatched the proceeds before I got the chance.  A bad omen, what?”

“I hope not,” said Crowther.

There was a touch of savagery in Piers’ laugh.  “It won’t happen again, anyhow,” he said.

They entered the Casino with its brilliant rooms and pushing crowds.  The place was thronged.  As they entered, a woman with a face of evil beauty, pressed close to Piers and spoke a word or two in French.  But he looked at her and through her with royal disdain, and so passed her by.

They made their way to the table at which Piers had tried his luck the previous night, waited for and finally secured a place.

“You take it!” said Crowther.  “I believe in your luck.”

Piers laughed.  He staked five francs on the figure five and lost, doubled his stakes and lost again, trebled them and lost again.

“This is getting serious,” said Crowther.

But still Piers laughed.  “Damn it!” he said.  “I will win to-night!”

“Try another figure!” said Crowther.

But Piers refused.  He laid down twenty-five francs, and with that he won.  It was the turning-point.  From that moment it seemed he could not do wrong.  Stake after stake he won, either with his own money, or Crowther’s; and finally left the table in triumph with full pockets.

A good many watched him enviously as he went.  He refused to try his luck elsewhere, but went arrogantly away with his hand through Crowther’s arm.

“He’ll come back to-morrow,” observed a shrewd American.  “And the next day, and the next.  He’s just the sort that helps to keep this establishment going.  They’ll pick him clean.”