“I don’t know,” he answered unwillingly.  “There are stories against him.”

“What stories?”

“Nothing definite.”  My brother hesitated.  “It doesn’t seem fair to him to repeat mere whispers.  But the others don’t like him.”

“Hence the whispers, perhaps.  They have not reached me.”

“They would not.  He is known to be a favourite of yours.  But they don’t care to play with him.”  My brother stopped, met my look, and answered it with a shrug of the shoulders, adding, “He wins pretty constantly.”

“Any definite charge before to-night’s?”

“No:  at least, I think not.  But Urquhart may have been put up to watch.”

“Fetch him up, please,” said I promptly; and seating myself at the writing-table I lit candles (for the lamp was dim), made ready the writing materials and prepared to take notes of the evidence.

Mr. Urquhart presently entered, and I wheeled round in my chair to confront him.  He was still exceedingly pale—­paler, I thought, than I had left him.  He seemed decidedly ill at ease, though not on his own account.  His answer to my first question made me fairly leap in my chair.

“I wish,” he said, “to qualify my accusation of Mr. Mackenzie.  That he cheated I have the evidence of my own eyes; but I am not sure how far he knew he was cheating.”

“Good heavens, sir!” I cried.  “Do you know you have accused that young man of a villainy which must damn him for life?  And now you tell me—­” I broke off in sheer indignation.

“I know,” he answered quietly.  “The noise fetched you in upon us on the instant, and the mischief was done.”

“Indeed, sir,” I could not avoid sneering, “to most of us it would seem that the mischief was done when you accused a brother-officer of fraud to his face.”

He seemed to reflect.  “Yes, sir,” he assented slowly; “it is done.  I saw him cheat:  that I must persist in; but I cannot say how far he was conscious of it.  And since I cannot, I must take the consequences.”

“Will you kindly inform us how it is possible for a player to cheat and not know that he is cheating?”

He bent his eyes on the carpet as if seeking an answer.  It was long in coming.  “No,” he said at last, in a slow, dragging tone, “I cannot.”

“Then you will at least tell us exactly what Mr. Mackenzie did.”

Again there was a long pause.  He looked at me straight, but with hopelessness in his eyes.  “I fear you would not believe me.  It would not be worth while.  If you can grant it, sir, I would ask time to decide.”

“Mr. Urquhart,” said I sternly, “are you aware you have brought against Mr. Mackenzie a charge under which no man of honour can live easily for a moment?  You ask me without a word of evidence in substantiation to keep him in torture while I give you time.  It is monstrous, and I beg to remind you that, unless your charge is proved, you can—­and will—­be broken for making it.”