It was impossible to guess his age. He might have been anywhere from forty to sixty and must have been a handsome man when he was young--whenever that was. He was a good-looking man yet, but there was something sinister about him. His face was deeply lined, but not with the lines of age or pain or of contentment or good nature. The lines in a man's face will tell their story of his life to him who can read them. Insensibly, they tell their story to him who cannot read them. Eugene could not; but he felt the story and was at once fascinated and repelled. He could not take his eyes off that dealer's face; and the longer he looked the more strongly he was impressed with a vague recollection. It might be only of a dream, or of a dim resemblance to some one that he knew. He had the curious sense, which comes to all of us on occasion, of having lived that very moment in some previous incarnation, perhaps of knowing exactly what was going to happen next. Not that anything in particular did happen. I would not willingly raise expectations which must be disappointed. The dealer had always seemed to look at Charlie Ladue with interest; with as much interest as he ever showed in anything--much more, indeed, than he showed in anything or in anybody else. Charlie himself had noted that, and although he never spoke,--at least, Charlie had never heard him utter a word beyond what were absolutely necessary to his duties,--there was something compelling in his eye which always met Charlie's look as it was raised slowly from his cards, as if there were some mysterious bond of fellowship between them. Rarely he had smiled. But that was a mistake. It always made Charlie wish that he hadn't. Charlie had not noticed, perhaps, that it was always on the rare occasions when he won that the dealer had ventured upon that faint smile which was so disagreeable. When he lost, which happened more frequently,--very much more frequently,--the dealer expressed no emotion whatever, unless a slight compression of his thin lips could be called an expression of emotion. There was a stir among the persons about the table; among those sitting and among those standing. The disgusted young fellow got up quickly and one of the scorers as quickly took the chair he had left. The boy breathed a deep sigh of relief as he passed close to Eugene. "Hell!" he exclaimed under his breath. It was more to himself than to anybody else, although, catching Eugene's eye, he smiled. "They call that sport!" The elderly man with the white mustache smiled peacefully and got up, too, and joined the boy. "Had enough, Harry?" Harry turned a face filled with disgust. "Enough!" he said. "I should think I had. It will last me all my life." He repressed his feelings with an effort. "Did you win, Uncle Don?" "I'm sure I don't know," Uncle Don replied quietly. "I didn't keep track. Did you?"