“I guess that’s so,” said the girl, with a dark, ironical smile.

“And that his luck is phenomenal,” the old lady went on, without appearing to notice the interruption.  “Very well.  Your uncle, the old fool—­excuse me, my dear—­has done nothing but gamble all his life.  The doctor says that he believes John has never been known to win more than about once in a month’s play, no matter with whom he plays.  You know—­we all know—­that for years he has been in the habit of raising loans from this monumental cuttle-fish to settle his losses.  And you can trust that individual to see that these loans are well secured.  John Allandale is reputed very rich, but the doctor assures me that were Lablache to foreclose his mortgages a very, very big slice of your uncle’s worldly goods would be taken to meet his debts.

“Now comes the last stage of the affair,” she went on, with a sage little shake of the head.  “How long ago is it since Lablache proposed to you?  But there, you need not tell me.  It was a little less than a year ago—­wasn’t it?”

Her companion nodded her head.  She wondered how “Aunt” Margaret had guessed it.  She had never told a soul herself.  The shrewd little old lady was filling her with wonder.  The careful manner in which she had pieced facts together and argued them out with herself revealed to her a cleverness and observation she would never, in spite of the kindly soul’s counsels, have given her credit for.

“Yes, I knew I was right,” said Mrs. Abbot, complacently.  “Just about the time when Lablache began seriously to play poker—­about the time when his phenomenal luck set in, to the detriment of your uncle.  Yes, I am well posted,” as the girl raised her eyebrows in surprise.  “The doctor tells me a great deal—­especially about your uncle, dear.  I always like to know what is going on.  And now to bring my long explanation to an end.  Don’t you see how Lablache intends to marry you?  Your uncle’s losses this winter have been so terribly heavy—­and all to Lablache.  Lablache holds the whip hand of him.  A request from Lablache becomes a command—­or the crash.”

“But how about the Doc,” asked Jacky, quickly.  “He plays with them—­mostly?”

Mrs. Abbot shrugged her shoulders.

“The doctor can take care of himself.  He’s cautious, and besides—­Lablache has no wish to win his money.”

“But surely he must lose?  Say, auntie, dear, it’s not possible to play against Lablache’s luck without losing—­some.”

“Well, dear, I can’t say I know much of the game,” with some perplexity, “but the doctor assures me that Lablache never hits him hard.  Often and often when the ‘pot’ rests between them Lablache will throw down his hand—­which goes to show that he does not want to take his money.”

“An’ I reckon goes to show that he’s bucking dead against Uncle John, only.  Yes, I see.”

The little gray head again bent over the darning, which had lain almost untouched in her lap during her long recital.  Now she resolutely drew the darning yarn through the soft wool of the sock and re-inserted the needle.  The girl beside her bent an eager face before her, and, resting her chin upon her hands, propped her elbows on her knees.