“The gentleman can have that bank,” drawled Hockmaster. “And I'll go _banco_.” Which means that he would play one hand against the new banker for the whole amount of the bank--£400. There was a death-like silence. The German, looking pallid and flabby, took his seat. The stakes were deposited on the table. The croupier placed the fresh packs on the rest before the new banker. With trembling fingers the German slipped the two cards apiece to Hockmaster and himself. The American allowed his cards to remain in front of him for a moment as he looked up at Raine, who was standing behind him, also under the spell of the general excitement. “If I lose this, I take the next tramcar back to Chicago.” “Take up your cards,” grumbled an impatient voice. Hockmaster picked them up. They were a 6 and a 4, which making 10, according to the principles of the game where tens and multiples of ten count as nothing, were valueless. “_Une carte?_” asked the German. “Yes.” “The card was an ace. The beads of perspiration formed on the American's forehead. Only a miracle could save him--that of the banker drawing tens. For if the banker's pips totted up, subtracting multiples of ten, to any number between 2 and 9, Hockmaster lost. The banker displayed his cards. Two queens. The chances were now 9 to 4 in the banker's favour. He drew a card slowly from the top. It was the ten of diamonds. “_Baccara!_” he gasped. “One!” cried Hockmaster, throwing down his cards. A hubbub of eager voices arose at the sensational victory. The German retired from the table and left the room without saying a word. Hockmaster wiped his forehead and stowed away the bank-notes and gold in his pockets. “I reckon I've had enough too,” he exclaimed in a thick, unsteady voice. “Good-night, gentlemen.” He rose, stretched himself, laid hold of Raine's arm, and the two went out together. As they reached the front steps of the Kursaal, they heard the German driving away in a cab that had been waiting. “I wish there was another one,” said Hockmaster, reeling. The fresh night air struck him like an electric shock. He lurched heavily against Raine, and laughed stupidly. “I guess I'm as drunk as a boiled owl.” Raine was surprised, angry and disgusted. The modern Englishman sees nothing funny in drunkenness. If he had suspected that Hockmaster was drinking to the degree of intoxication, he would have left the Kursaal long before. But the motionlessness of his position and the intense excitement of the game had combined to check temporarily the effects of the alcohol. There was no help for it, however; he must give the drunken man his arm and convey him home.