“Right you are,” admitted P. Sybarite, shifting twenty dollars from the 13 to the 14.  “Careless memory of mine ...”

“Thirteen, black, odd....”

“There, now!  You see—­you spoiled my aim,” P. Sybarite complained peevishly.

“Forgive me,” murmured Mr. Penfield while P. Sybarite made another wager.  “Are you in a hurry to break the bank?” he added.

“It’s my ambition,” modestly confessed the little man, watching a second twenty gathered in to the benefit of the house.  “But I’ve only a few minutes more—­and you do play such a darned small game.”

“Perhaps I can arrange matters for you,” suggested Mr. Penfield.  “You’d like the limit removed?”

“Not as bad as all that.  Make the maximum a hundred, and I’ll begin to feel at home.”

“Delighted to oblige.  You won’t object to my rolling for you?” Penfield nodded to the croupier; who (first paying P. Sybarite seven hundred on his last wager) surrendered his place.

“Not in the least,” agreed P. Sybarite, marshalling his chips in stacks of five:  twenty-five dollars each.  “It’s an honour,” he added, covering several numbers as Penfield deftly set ball and wheel in motion.

He won the first fall; and encouraged by this, began to play extravagantly, sowing the board liberally with wagers of twenty-five, fifty, and one hundred dollars each.  Hardly ever the ball clattered to a lodgment but he cashed one or another of these; and the number of times that the house paid him thirty-five hundred dollars passed his count.  All other play at that table ceased; and a gallery of patrons of the establishment gathered round, following with breathless interest the fortunes of this shabby little plunger.  Their presence, far from annoying, pleased him; it was just so much additional assurance of fair play.  The mounting of the roulette wheel—­it was placed upon a broad sheet of plate-glass elevated several inches above the table—­was proof against secret manipulation.  And a throng of spectators not only forbade any attempt to call wrong numbers on a winning cast but likewise insured fair dealing on the part of the croupier, who was so busy raking in losing bets or paying winnings that P. Sybarite had time neither to watch him nor to check his payments.

Penfield, cool and smiling, confined his attention to the wheel.  If he felt any uneasiness or dismay on account of P. Sybarite’s steadily augmented mountain of chips, he betrayed it not at all overtly.

But abruptly (they had been playing less than fifteen minutes) he paused and, instead of starting the ball on another race round its ebony run, dropped it lightly in the depression immediately above the axle of the wheel.

“The game is closed,” he announced evenly, with a slow smile.  “Sir”—­directly to P. Sybarite—­“although it lacks the resources of Monte Carlo, this establishment nevertheless imitates its protective measures.  A table losing twenty-five thousand dollars in one day ceases operations.  You are just twenty-five thousand to the good.  Accept my congratulations.”