That she had won heavily this evening he saw at once.  The dangerous and impalpable flush of the gamester was on her face, and behind it burned a glow and radiance.  She looked as if, having defeated men by the coolness of her wits and the favor of luck, she had begun to think that she could now outguess the world.  Two men trailed behind her, stirring uneasily about when she paused at Ronicky’s alcove table.

“You’ve found the place so soon?” she asked.  “How is your luck?”

“Not nearly as good tonight as yours.”

“Oh, I can’t help winning.  Every card I touch turns into gold this evening.  I think I have the formula for it.”

“Tell me, then,” said Ronicky quickly enough, for there was just the shadow of a backward nod of her head.

“Just step aside.  I’ll spoil Mr. McKeever’s game for him, I’m afraid.”

Ronicky excused himself with a nod to the other two and followed the girl into the next room.

“I have bad news,” she whispered instantly, “but keep smiling.  Laugh if you can.  The two men with me I don’t know.  They may be his spies for all we can tell.  Ronicky Doone, John Mark is out for you.  Why, in Heaven’s name, are you interfering with Caroline Smith and her affairs?  It will be your death, I promise you.  John Mark has arrived and has placed men around the house.  Ronicky Doone, he means business.  Help yourself if you can.  I’m unable to lift a hand for you.  If I were you I should leave, and I should leave at once.  Laugh, Ronicky Doone!”

He obeyed, laughing until the tears were glittering in his eyes, until the girl laughed with him.

“Good!” she whispered.  “Good-by, Ronicky, and good luck.”

He watched her going, saw the smiles of the two men, as they greeted her again and closed in beside her, and watched the light flash on her shoulders, as she shrugged away some shadow from her mind—­perhaps the small care she had given about him.  But no matter how cold-hearted she might be, how thoroughly in tune with this hard, bright world of New York, she at least was generous and had courage.  Who could tell how much she risked by giving him that warning?

Ronicky went back to his place at the table, still laughing in apparent enjoyment of the jest he had just heard.  He saw McKeever’s ferretlike glance of interrogation and distrust—­a thief’s distrust of an honest man—­but Ronicky’s good nature did not falter in outward seeming for an instant.  He swept up his hand, bet a hundred, with apparently foolish recklessness, on three sevens, and then had to buy fresh chips from McKeever.

The coming of the girl seemed to have completely upset his equilibrium as a gambler—­certainly it made him bet with the recklessness of a madman.  And Frederic Fernand, glancing in from time to time, watched the demolition of Ronicky’s pile of chips, with growing complacence.

Ronicky Doone had allowed himself to take heed of the room about him, and Frederic Fernand liked him for it.  His beautiful rooms were pearls cast before swine, so far as most of his visitors were concerned.  A moment later Ronicky had risen, went toward the wall and drew a dagger from its sheath.