of ivory chips, and the excited voices of those absorbed in play.  In both size and gorgeousness of decoration the rooms above were a surprise—­a glitter of lights, a babel of noises, a continuous jumble of figures, while over all trembled a certain tension of excitement, terrible in its enchaining power.  The very atmosphere seemed electric, filled with a deadly charm.  The dull roar of undistinguishable voices sounded incessantly, occasionally punctuated by those sharp, penetrating tones with which the scattered dealers called varied turns of play, or by some deep oath falling unnoted from desperate lips as the unhappy end came.  Winston, who had seen many similar scenes, glanced with his usual cool indifference at the various groups of players, careless except in his search, and pressing straight through the vibrating, excited throng, regardless of the many faces fronting him.  He understood that Farnham dealt faro, and consequently moved directly down the long main room totally indifferent to all else.  He discovered his particular goal at last, almost at the farther end of the great apartment, the crowd gathered about the faro table dense and silent.  He succeeded in pressing in slowly through the outer fringe of players until he attained a position within ten feet of the dealer.  There he halted, leaning against the wall, the narrow space between them unoccupied.

He saw before him a slenderly built, fashionably dressed figure, surmounted by clear-cut, smooth-shaven features—­a man of thirty, possibly, decidedly aristocratic, perfectly self-controlled, his eyes cool, calculating, his hands swift, unhesitating in play.  From some mysterious cause this masterful repose of the absorbed dealer began immediately to exercise a serious fascination over the man watching him.  He did not appear altogether human, he seemed rather like some perfectly adjusted machine, able to think and plan, yet as unemotional as so much tempered steel.  There was no perceptible change passing in that utterly impassive face, no brightening of those cold, observant eyes, no faintest movement of the tightly compressed lips.  It was as though he wore a mask completely eclipsing every natural human feeling.  Twice Winston, observing closely from his post of vantage slightly to the rear the swift action of those slender white fingers, could have sworn the dealer faced the wrong card, yet the dangerous trick was accomplished so quickly, so coolly, with never a lowering of the eyes, the twitching of a muscle, that a moment later the half-jealous watcher doubted the evidence of his own keen eyesight.  As the final fateful card came silently gliding forth and was deliberately turned, face upward, amid bitter curses telling the disappointment of that breathless crowd, a young woman suddenly swept around the lower edge of the long table, brushing Winston with her flapping skirt as she passed, bent down, and whispered a half-dozen rapid sentences into the gambler’s