“It is not a proper place for our pretty friend, but—­ah! she loves play now!  The Polish lady, Madame Wolsky, was also a great lover of baccarat; but now she ’as gone away.  And so, when Mrs. Bailey come ’ere, like this, at night, my ’usband and I—­we are what you English people call old-fashioned folk—­we come, too.  Not to play—­oh, no, but, you understand, just to look after ’er.  She is so innocent, so young, so beautiful!”

Chester looked kindly at Madame Wachner.  It was very decent of her—­really good-natured and motherly—­to take such an interest in poor Sylvia and her delinquencies.  Yes, that was the way to take this—­this matter which so shocked him.  Sylvia Bailey—­lovely, wilful, spoilt Sylvia—­was a very young woman, and ridiculously innocent, as this old lady truly said.

He, Chester, knew that a great many nice people went to Monte Carlo, and spent sometimes a good deal more money than they could afford at the tables.  It was absurd to be angry with Sylvia for doing here what very many other people did in another place.  He felt sincerely grateful to this fat, vulgar looking woman for having put the case so clearly.

“It’s very good of you to do that,” he answered awkwardly; “I mean it’s very good of you to accompany Mrs. Bailey to this place,” he looked round him with distaste.

They were now downstairs, part of a merry, jostling crowd, which contained, as all such crowds naturally contain, a rather rowdy element.  “It certainly is no place for Mrs. Bailey to come to by herself—­”

He was going to add something, when Sylvia walked forward.

“Where’s Count Paul?” she asked, anxiously, of Madame Wachner.  “Surely he did not stay on at the table after we left?”

Madame Wachner shook her head slightly.

“I don’t know at all,” she said, and then cast a meaning glance at Chester.  It was an odd look, and somehow it inspired him with a prejudice against the person, this “Count Paul,” of whom Sylvia had just spoken.

“Ah, here he is!” There was relief, nay gladness, ringing in Mrs. Bailey’s frank voice.

The Comte de Virieu was pushing his way through the slowly moving crowd.  Without looking at the Wachners, he placed ten louis in Sylvia’s hand.

“Your last stake was doubled,” he said, briefly.  “Then that means, does it not, Madame, that you have made thirty-two louis this evening?  I congratulate you.”

Chester’s prejudice grew, unreasonably.  “Damn the fellow; then he was honest, after all!  But why should he congratulate Mrs. Bailey on having won thirty-two louis?”

He acknowledged Sylvia’s introduction of the Count very stiffly, and he was relieved when the other turned on his heel—­relieved, and yet puzzled to see how surprised Sylvia seemed to be by his departure.  She actually tried to keep the Count from going back to the Club.

“Aren’t you coming to the Villa du Lac?  It’s getting very late,” she said, in a tone of deep disappointment.