But quite instinctively his hand moved out, tenderly embraced the four brown chips, and transferred them to the green area dominated by the black diamond.

“Twelve, black—!”

Forty dollars were represented in that stunted pillar of brown wafers!  P. Sybarite experienced an effect of coming to his senses after an abbreviated and, to tell the truth, somewhat nightmarish nap.  Aping the manner of one or two other players whom he had observed before this madness possessed him, he thrust the chips out of the charmed circle of chance, and nodded again (with what a seasoned air!) to the croupier.

“Cash or chips?” enquired that functionary.

“Oh—­cash, thank you.”

The chips gathered into the company of their brethren, two twenty-dollar bills replaced them.

Stuffing these into his pocket, P. Sybarite turned and strolled indifferently toward the door.

“Better leave while your luck holds,” Intelligence counselled.

“Right you are,” he admitted fairly.  “I’ll go home now before anybody gets this away from me.”

“Sensible of you,” Intelligence approved.

“Still,” suggested the small but clear voice of Greed, “you’ve got your original five dollars yet to lose.  Be a sport.  Don’t go without turning in a cent to the house.  It wouldn’t look pretty.”

“There’s something in that,” admitted P. Sybarite again.

Nevertheless, he never quite understood how it was that his feet carried him to the other roulette table, at the end of the salon opposite that at which he had been playing; or how it was that his fingers produced and coolly handed over the board, one of the twenty-dollar notes rather than the modest five he had meant to risk.

“How many?” the new croupier asked pleasantly.

P. Sybarite pulled a doubtful mouth.  Five dollars’ worth was all he really wanted.  What on earth would he do with all the chips twenty dollars would buy?  He’d need a bushel measure!

Before he could make up his mind, however, exactly twenty white counters were meted out to him.

“What are these worth?” he demanded incredulously, dropping into a chair.

“One dollar each,” he was informed.

“Indeed?” he replied, politely smothering a slight yawn.

But he conceived a new respect for those infatuated men who so recklessly peppered the lay-out with chips—­singly and in little piles of five and ten—­worth one-hundred cents each!

However, to save his face, he’d have to go through his twenty.  But after that—­exit!

He made this promise to himself.

Prying a single chip apart from its fellows, he tossed it heedlessly upon the numbered squares.  It landed upon its rim, rolled toward the wheel, and fainted gracefully upon the green compartment numbered 00.

The croupier cocked an eyebrow at him, as if questioning his intention, at the instant the ivory ball began to sing its song of a single note.  Abruptly it was chattering; in another instant it was still.