But the goddess of Fortune smiling benignly on this country-bred lad, had in a wayward mood apparently taken him under her special protection.  He staked and won again, and then again pleased at his success ... in spite of himself feeling the subtle poison of excitement creeping into his veins ... yet remaining perfectly calm outwardly the while.

Segrave, on the other hand, was losing in exact proportion to the newcomer’s winnings:  already his pile of gold had perceptibly diminished, whilst the hectic flush on his cheeks became more and more accentuated, the glitter in his eyes more unnatural and feverish, his hands as they shuffled and dealt the cards more trembling and febrile.

“’Pon my honor,” quoth Sir Marmaduke, throwing a careless glance at the table, “meseems you are in luck, my good Lambert.  Doubtless, you are not sorry now that you allowed yourself to be persuaded.”

“’Tis not unpleasant to win,” rejoined Lambert lightly, “but believe me, sir, the game itself gives me no pleasure.”

“I pay knave and upwards,” declared Segrave in a dry and hollow voice, and with burning eyes fixed upon his new and formidable opponent.

“My last sovereign, par Dieu!” swore Lord Walterton, throwing the money across to Segrave with an unsteady hand.

“And one of my last,” said Sir Michael, as he followed suit.

“And what is your stake, Master Lambert?” queried Segrave.

“Twenty pounds I see,” replied the young man, as with a careless hand he counted over the gold which lay pell-mell on his card; “I staked on the king without counting.”

Segrave in his turn pushed some gold towards him.  The pile in front of him was not half the size it had been before this stranger from the country had sat down to play.  He tried to remain master of himself, not to show before these egotistical, careless cavaliers all the agony of mind which he now endured and which had turned to positive physical torture.

The ghost of stolen money, of exposure, of pillory and punishment which had so perceptibly paled as he saw the chance of replacing by his unexpected winnings that which he had purloined, once more rose to confront him.  Again he saw before him the irascible employer, pointing with relentless finger at the deficiency in the accounts, again he saw his weeping mother, his stern father,—­the disgrace, the irretrievable past.

“You are not leaving off playing, Sir Michael?” he asked anxiously, as the latter having handed him over a golden guinea, rose from the table and without glancing at his late partners in the game, turned his back on them all.

“Par Dieu!” he retorted, speaking roughly, and none too civilly over his shoulder, “my pockets are empty....  Like Master Lambert here,” he added with an unmistakable sneer, “I find no pleasure in this sort of game!”

“What do you mean?” queried Segrave hotly.

“Oh, nothing,” rejoined the other dryly, “you need not heed my remark.  Are you not losing, too?”