Senator Danfield had just come in to see how things were going.  He was a sleek, fat man, and it was amazing to see with what deference his victims treated him.  He affected not to have heard what DeLong said, but I could imagine what he was thinking, for I had heard that he had scant sympathy with anyone after he “went broke”—­another evidence of the camaraderie and good-fellowship that surrounded the game.

Kennedy’s next remark surprised me.  “Oh, your luck will change, D.L.,”—­everyone referred to him as “D.L.,” for gambling-houses have an aversion for real names and greatly prefer initials—­“your luck will change presently.  Keep right on with your system.  It’s the best you can do to-night, short of quitting.”

“I’ll never quit.” replied the young man under his breath.

Meanwhile Kennedy and I paused on the way out to compare notes.  My report of the behavior of the compass only confirmed him in his opinion.

As we turned to the stairs we took in a full view of the room.

A faro-layout was purchasing Senator Danfield a new touring-car every hour at the expense of the players.  Another group was gathered about the hazard-board, deriving evident excitement, though I am sure none could have given an intelligent account of the chances they were taking.  Two roulette-tables were now going full blast, the larger crowd still about DeLong’s.  Snatches of conversation came to us now and then, and I caught one sentence, “DeLong’s in for over a hundred thousand now on the week’s play, I understand; poor boy—­that about cleans him up.”

“The tragedy of it, Craig,” I whispered, but he did not hear.

With his hat tilted at a rakish angle and his opera-coat over his arm he sauntered over for a last look.

“Any luck yet?” he asked carelessly.

“The devil—­no,” returned the boy.

“Do you know what my advice to you is, the advice of a man who has seen high play everywhere from Monte Carlo to Shanghai?”

“What?”

“Play until your luck changes if it takes until to-morrow.”

A supercilious smile crossed Senator Danfield’s fat face.

“I intend to,” and the haggard young face turned again to the table and forgot us.

“For Heaven’s sake, Kennedy,” I gasped as we went down the stairway, “what do you mean by giving him such advice—­you?”

“Not so loud, Walter.  He’d have done it anyhow, I suppose, but I want him to keep at it.  This night means life or death to Percival DeLong and his mother, too.  Come on, let’s get out of this.”

We passed the formidable steel door and gained the street, jostled by the late-comers who had left the after-theatre restaurants for a few moments of play at the famous club that so long had defied the police.

Almost gaily Kennedy swung along toward Broadway.  At the corner he hesitated, glanced up and down, caught sight of the furniture-van in the middle of the next block.  The driver was tugging at the harness of the horses, apparently fixing it.  We walked along and stopped beside it.