“How’s that?” said Penfield, staring.

“You couldn’t have won against me to-night,” P. Sybarite ingenuously explained; “it could not be done:  I am invincible:  it is—­Kismet!—­my Day of Days!”

Penfield laughed discordantly.

“Maybe it looks that way to you.  But aren’t you a little premature?  You haven’t banked that wad yet, you know.  Any minute something might happen to make you think otherwise.”

“Nothing like that is going to happen,” P. Sybarite retorted with calm conviction.  “The luck’s with me at present!”

“And yet,” said the other, abandoning his easy pose and sitting up with a sharpened glance and tone, “you are wrong—­quite wrong.”

“What makes you think that?” demanded P. Sybarite, finishing his second glass.

“Because,” said his host with a dangerous smile, “I am a desperate man.”

“Oh?” said P. Sybarite thoughtfully.

“Believe me,” insisted the other with convincing simplicity:  “I’m such a bum loser, I’m willing to stake my last five hundred on the proposition that you don’t leave this house a dollar richer than you entered it.”

“Done!” said P. Sybarite instantly.  “If I get away with it, you pay me five hundred dollars.  Is that right?”

“Exactly!”

“But—­where shall we meet to settle the wager?”

Penfield smiled cheerfully.  “Dine with me at the Bizarre this evening at seven.”

“If I lose, with pleasure.  Otherwise, you are to be my guest.”

“It’s a bargain.”

“And—­that being understood,” pursued P. Sybarite curiously—­“perhaps you won’t mind explaining your grounds for this conspicuous confidence.”

“Not in the least,” said the other, pulling comfortably at his cigar—­“that is, if you’re willing to come through with a little information.  I’m curious to know how you came to butt in here on my personal card of introduction.  Where did you get it?”

“Found it in a hat left in my possession by a gentleman in a great hurry, whom I much desired to see again, and therefore—­presuming him to be Mr. Bailey Penfield—­came here to find.”

“A gentleman unknown to you?”

“Entirely:  a tall young man with an ugly mouth; rather fancies himself, I should say:  a bit of a bounder.  You recognise this sketch?”

“Perhaps ...”  Penfield murmured thoughtfully.

“His name?”

“Maybe he wouldn’t thank me for telling you that.”

“Very well.  Now then:  why and how are you going to separate me from my winnings?”

“By force,” said Mr. Penfield with engaging candour.  “It desolates me to descend to rough-neck methods, but I am a larger, stronger man than you, Mr.—­”

“Sybarite,” said the little man, flushing, “P.—­by the grace of God!—­Sybarite.”

“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Sybarite....  But before we lose our tempers, what do you say to a fair proposition:  leave me what you have won to-night, and I’ll pay it back to the last cent with interest in less than six months.”