I looked back at Tom, who merely nodded, and put my first half-crown upon the red space marked 19.  My neighbour, without seeming to notice the smallness of the sum, bent over the table and sent the wheel spinning on its errand.  I, too, bent forward to watch, and as the wheel halted, saw the coin swept, with many more valuable, into the great pile.

“A bad beginning,” said the sweet voice beside me.  “Try again.”

I tried again, and a third time, and two more half-crowns went to join their fellow.

There was one more chance.  White with desperation I drew out my last half-crown, and laid it on the black.  A flash, and my neighbour’s hand sent the needle whirling.  Round and round it went, as though it would never cease; round and round, then slackened, slackened, hesitated and stopped—­where?

Where but over the red square opposite me?

For a moment all things seemed to whirl and dance before me.  The candles shot out a million glancing rays, the table heaved, the rings upon the woman’s fingers glittered and sparkled, while opposite me the devilish finger of Fortune pointed at the ruin of my hopes, and as it pointed past them and at me, called me very fool.

I clutched the table’s green border and sank back in my seat.  As I did so I heard a low curse from Tom behind me.  The overwhelming truth broke in upon my senses, chasing the blood from my face, the hope from my heart.  Ruined!  Ruined!  The faces around me grew blurred and misty, the room and all my surrounding seemed to fade further and yet further away, leaving me face to face with the consequences of my folly.  Scarce knowing what I did, I turned to look at Tom, and saw that his face was white and set.  As I did so the musical voice beside me murmured—­

“The game is waiting:  are you going to stake this time?”

I stammered out a negative.

“What? already tired?  A faint heart should not go with such a face,” and again she swept the pointer round.

“Is it,” she whispered in my ear, “is it that you cannot?”

“It is.”

“Ah, it is hard with half-a-sovereign to break the bank.  But see, have you nothing—­nothing?  For I feel as if my luck were going to leave me.”

“Nothing,” I answered, “nothing in the world.”

“Poor boy!”

Her voice was tender and sympathetic, but in her eyes there glanced not the faintest spark of mercy.  I sat for a moment stunned and helpless, and then she resumed.

“Can I lend to you?”

“No, for I have no chance of repaying.  This was my all, and it has gone.  I have not one penny left in the world.”

“Poor boy!”

“I thank you.  I could not expect you to pity me, but—­”

“Ah, but you are wrong.  I pity you:  I pity you all.  Fools, fools, I call you all, and yet I make my living out of you.  So you cannot play,” she added, as she set the game going once again.  “What will you do?”