“Lowther, to all appearance the least sober and worst player of the party, had been chief winner. Ringwood had won a little; Madam Montepulciano’s friends did not make a bad night’s work of it, although they declared their gains trifling, but as there had been a good deal of gold and some bank-notes upon the table, it was difficult to say exactly how the thing had gone. Darvel, who had frequently made attempts to stop the play—attempts frustrated by Lowther’s drunken violence, Ringwood’s dogged sullenness, and my own mad eagerness,—was visibly a loser; but what mattered that, when his confederates won? There is honour amongst thieves, and no doubt next day witnessed an equitable division of the spoils. “It was the second day after the debauch before I again saw any of my kind friends. I spent the greater part of the intervening one in bed, exhausted and utterly desponding, revolving in my mind my desperate position. I had no heart to go out or see any body. At last Darvel called upon me, affected great sorrow for my losses, deplored my obstinacy in playing high against his advice, and inveighed against Lowther for his drunken persistence. Anxiety and previous excess had rendered me really unwell; Darvel insisted on sending me his physician, and left me with many expressions of kindness, and a promise to call next day. All this feigned sympathy was not lavished without an object; the gang had discovered I might still be of use to them. In what way, I did not long remain ignorant. During a week or more that I remained in the house, suffering from a sort of low fever, Darvel came daily to sit with me, brought me newspapers, told me the gossip of the hour, and not unfrequently threw out hints of better times near at hand, when the blind goddess should again smile upon me. At last I learned in what way her smiles were to be purchased. I was convalescent; my doctor had paid his farewell visit, and pocketed my last napoleon, when Darvel entered my room. After the usual commonplace inquiries, he sat down by the fire, silent, and with a gloomy countenance. I could not help noticing this, for I was accustomed to see him cheerful and talkative upon his visits to me; and I presently inquired if any thing had gone wrong. “‘Yes—no—nothing with me exactly, but for you. I am disappointed on your account.’ “‘On my account?’ “‘Yes. I wrote to England some days ago, urging friends of mine in high places to get you a snug berth, and to-day I have received answers.’ “‘Well?’ “‘No, ill—cold comfort enough. Lots of promises, but with an unmistakable hint that many are to be served before me, and that we must wait several months,—which with those people means several years,—before there will be a chance of a good wind blowing your way. I am infernally sorry for it.’ “‘And I also,’ I replied, mournfully. There was a short pause. “‘How are you off for the sinews of war?’ said Darvel. “‘You may find some small change on the chimney-piece—my last money.’