“Such being the case”—­P.  Sybarite pushed back the little army of white chips—­“you may give me twenty dark-brown counters for these....”

In ten minutes he had lost two hundred dollars.

At the end of twenty minutes, he exchanged his last thirty-five dollars for seven brown chips.

Ten minutes later, he was worth eighteen hundred dollars; in another ten, he had before him counters calling for five thousand or thereabouts.

“It is,” he observed privately—­“it must be my Day of Days!”

A hand touched his shoulder, and a quiet voice said:  “Beg pardon—­”

He looked up with a slight start—­that wasn’t one of joyous welcome, because the speaker was altogether a stranger—­to find at his elbow a large body of man entirely surrounded by evening clothes and urbanity; whose face was broad with plump cheeks particularly clean-shaven; whose eyes were keen and small and twinkling; whose fat hand (offered to P. Sybarite) was strikingly white and dimpled and well-manicured; whose dignity and poise (alike inimitable) combined with the complaisance of a seasoned student of mankind to mark an individuality at once insinuating and forceful.

“You were asking for me, I believe?” pursued this person, with complete suavity.

P. Sybarite pursed doubtful lips.  “I’m afraid,” he replied pleasantly, “you have the advantage of me....  Let’s see:  this is my thirty-second birthday....”

The ball was spinning.  He deposited four chips on the square numbered 32.

“I am Mr. Penfield,” the stranger explained.

“Really?” P. Sybarite jumped up and cordially seized his hand.  “I hope I see you well to-night.”

Releasing the hand, he sat down.

“Quite well, thank you; in fact, never better.”  With a slight smile Mr. Penfield nodded toward the gaming table.  “Having a good time?”

“Thirty-two, red, even,” observed the croupier....

“Oh, tolerable, tolerable,” assented P. Sybarite, blandly accepting counters that called for seven hundred dollars....

“In one year from to-day, I shall be thirty-three,” he reckoned; and shifted a maximum to the square designated by that number....

“What do you think?  Is Teddy going to get the nomination?”

“I’m only very slightly interested in politics,” returned Mr. Penfield.  “I shouldn’t like to express an opinion....  Sorry a prior engagement obliged me to keep you waiting.”

“Thirty-three, black, odd....”

“Don’t mention it,” insisted P. Sybarite politely.  “Not another word of apology—­I protest!  Indeed, I’ve managed to divert myself amazingly while waiting....  Thank you,” he added in acknowledgment of another seven-hundred-dollar consignment of chips.  “To-day,” he mused aloud, “is the thirteenth of April—­”

“The fourteenth,” corrected Mr. Penfield:  “to-day is only about two hours old.”