In the glare of the daylight he was even more yellow than when under the blaze of the gas-jets.  His eyes were still glassy and brilliant, but the rims showed red, as if for want of sleep, and beneath the lower lids lay sunken half-circles of black.  He moved with his wonted precision, but without that extreme gravity of manner which had characterized him the night of the game.  Looked at as a mere passer-by, he would have impressed you as a rather debonair, overdressed habitue, who was enjoying his morning stroll under the trees, without other purpose in life than the breathing of the cool air and enjoyment of the attendant exercise.  His spider-ship had doubtless seen me when he entered the walk,—­I was still an untrapped fly,—­and had picked out this particular flower-girl beside me as a safe anchorage for one end of his web.  I turned away my head; but it was too late.

“Monsieur did not play last night?” the croupier asked deferentially.

“No; I did not know the game.”  Then an idea struck me.  “Sit down; I want to talk to you.”  He touched the edge of his hat with one finger, opened a gold cigarette-case studded with jewels, offered me its contents, and took the seat beside me.

“Pardon the abruptness of the inquiry, but who was the woman in black?” I asked.

He looked at me curiously.

“Ah, you mean madame with the bag?”

“Yes.”

“She was once the Baroness Frontignac.”

“Was once!  What is she now?”

“Now?  Ah, that is quite a story.”  He stopped, shut the gold case with a click, and leaned forward, flicking the pebbles with the point of his cane.  “If madame had had a larger bag she might have broken the bank.  Is it not so?”

“You know her, then?” I persisted.

“Monsieur, men of my profession know everybody.  Sooner or later they all come to us—­when they are young, and their francs have wings; when they are gray-haired and cautious; when they are old and foolish.”

“But she did not look like a gambler,” I replied stiffly.

He smiled his old cynical, treacherous smile.

“Monsieur is pleased to be very pronounced in his language.  A gambler!  Monsieur no doubt means to say that madame has not the appearance of being under the intoxication of the play.”  Then with a positive tone, still flicking the pebbles, “The baroness played for love.”

“Of the cards?” I asked persistently.  I was determined to drive the nail to the head.

The croupier looked at me fixedly, shrugged his shoulders, laughed between his teeth, a little, hissing laugh that sounded like escaping steam, and said slowly:—­

“No; of a man.”

Then, noticing my increasing interest, “Monsieur would know something of madame?”

He held up his hand, and began crooking one finger after another as he recounted her history.  These bent keys, it seemed, unlocked secrets as well.