The captain permitted Delamere to win from him several small amounts, after which he gradually increased the stakes and turned the tables.

Delamere, with every instinct of a gamester, was no more a match for McBane in self-control than in skill.  When the young man had lost all his money, the captain expressed his entire willingness to accept notes of hand, for which he happened to have convenient blanks in his apartment.

When Delamere, flushed with excitement and wine, rose from the gaming table at two o’clock, he was vaguely conscious that he owed McBane a considerable sum, but could not have stated how much.  His opponent, who was entirely cool and collected, ran his eye carelessly over the bits of paper to which Delamere had attached his signature.  “Just one thousand dollars even,” he remarked.

The announcement of this total had as sobering an effect upon Delamere as though he had been suddenly deluged with a shower of cold water.  For a moment he caught his breath.  He had not a dollar in the world with which to pay this sum.  His only source of income was an allowance from his grandfather, the monthly installment of which, drawn that very day, he had just lost to McBane, before starting in upon the notes of hand.

“I’ll give you your revenge another time,” said McBane, as they rose.  “Luck is against you to-night, and I’m unwilling to take advantage of a clever young fellow like you.  Meantime,” he added, tossing the notes of hand carelessly on a bureau, “don’t worry about these bits of paper.  Such small matters shouldn’t cut any figure between friends; but if you are around the hotel to-morrow, I should like to speak to you upon another subject.”

“Very well, captain,” returned Tom somewhat ungraciously.

Delamere had been completely beaten with his own weapons.  He had tried desperately to cheat McBane.  He knew perfectly well that McBane had discovered his efforts and had cheated him in turn, for the captain’s play had clearly been gauged to meet his own.  The biter had been bit, and could not complain of the outcome.

The following afternoon McBane met Delamere at the hotel, and bluntly requested the latter to propose him for membership in the Clarendon Club.

Delamere was annoyed at this request.  His aristocratic gorge rose at the presumption of this son of an overseer and ex-driver of convicts.  McBane was good enough to win money from, or even to lose money to, but not good enough to be recognized as a social equal.  He would instinctively have blackballed McBane had he been proposed by some one else; with what grace could he put himself forward as the sponsor for this impossible social aspirant?  Moreover, it was clearly a vulgar, cold-blooded attempt on McBane’s part to use his power over him for a personal advantage.

“Well, now, Captain McBane,” returned Delamere diplomatically, “I’ve never put any one up yet, and it’s not regarded as good form for so young a member as myself to propose candidates.  I’d much rather you’d ask some older man.”