A few minutes afterwards Ricardo finished his cigar and strolled back into the rooms, making his way to the big table just on the right hand of the entrance, where the play as a rule runs high.  It was clearly running high tonight.  For so deep a crowd thronged about the table that Ricardo could only by standing on tiptoe see the faces of the players.  Of the banker he could not catch a glimpse.  But though the crowd remained, its units were constantly changing, and it was not long before Ricardo found himself standing in the front rank of the spectators, just behind the players seated in the chairs.  The oval green table was spread out beneath him littered with bank-notes.  Ricardo turned his eyes to the left, and saw seated at the middle of the table the man who was holding the bank.  Ricardo recognised him with a start of surprise.  He was a young Englishman, Harry Wethermill, who, after a brilliant career at Oxford and at Munich, had so turned his scientific genius to account that he had made a fortune for himself at the age of twenty-eight.

He sat at the table with the indifferent look of the habitual player upon his cleanly chiselled face.  But it was plain that his good fortune stayed at his elbow tonight, for opposite to him the croupier was arranging with extraordinary deftness piles of bank-notes in the order of their value.  The bank was winning heavily.  Even as Ricardo looked Wethermill turned up “a natural,” and the croupier swept in the stakes from either side.

“Faites vos jeux, messieurs.  Le jeu est fait?” the croupier cried, all in a breath, and repeated the words.  Wethermill waited with his hand upon the wooden frame in which the cards were stacked.  He glanced round the table while the stakes were being laid upon the cloth, and suddenly his face flashed from languor into interest.  Almost opposite to him a small, white-gloved hand holding a five-louis note was thrust forward between the shoulders of two men seated at the table.  Wethermill leaned forward and shook his head with a smile.  With a gesture he refused the stake.  But he was too late.  The fingers of the hand had opened, the note fluttered down on to the cloth, the money was staked.

At once he leaned back in his chair.

“Il y a une suite,” he said quietly.  He relinquished the bank rather than play against that five-louis note.  The stakes were taken up by their owners.

The croupier began to count Wethermill’s winnings, and Ricardo, curious to know whose small, delicately gloved hand it was which had brought the game to so abrupt a termination, leaned forward.  He recognised the young girl in the white satin dress and the big black hat whose nerves had got the better of her a few minutes since in the garden.  He saw her now clearly, and thought her of an entrancing loveliness.  She was moderately tall, fair of skin, with a fresh colouring upon her cheeks which she owed to nothing but her youth.  Her hair was of a light brown with a sheen upon it, her forehead broad, her eyes dark and wonderfully clear.  But there was something more than her beauty to attract him.  He had a strong belief that somewhere, some while ago, he had already seen her.  And this belief grew and haunted him.  He was still vaguely puzzling his brains to fix the place when the croupier finished his reckoning.