It was only outwardly, however, that Hull appeared undisturbed. He felt a good deal of excitement within, and a veil seemed to be obscuring his mental vision. His bank-notes fluttered across to the stranger without his appearing aware of the fact. His senses seemed to be imprisoned in a delicate, invisible web, pressing ever more and more closely upon him. He drank a brandy and soda, and then ordered a bottle of champagne. The only effect of that was to make him open another compartment of his pocket-book and bring out the thousand-mark notes which he had procured from the bank that morning. His bad luck became really fantastic. Even when he held good cards it seemed as if in some obscure region of his mind a mysterious warning sealed his lips, and instead of staking a substantial sum, he wagered a trifling amount merely. It was now the visitor’s turn to pass on the office of banker, but he volunteered to continue to hold it on account of Hull. He said: “If you gentlemen do not object, I will remain banker for a few more rounds. You see how the money seems to cling to me. I am the guest of your hospitable club, so please consider how difficult my position is with regard to Herr von Hull, and grant my request.” His speech was polite, and carefully enunciated, yet there was a masterful ring about the words, as if the speaker would brook no refusal. The club attendant eyed the guest suspiciously, but he was using the cards provided by the club and fresh packs were opened every time. The play grew more animated. A good deal had been drunk, and several round the table were slightly intoxicated. The guest did not refrain from drinking, and his behaviour was in no way peculiar. He had a steady and lingering glance for everyone who looked at him, and his large grey eyes seemed to have something dominating about them, hardly in accordance with a mere game. His hands were large and fleshy, and as steady as if carved out of wood, while the fingers of the other men, far younger than he, were already quivering with excitement. Hull continued playing, though his pocket-book grew lighter and lighter. “What is the matter with me?” he continually asked himself. He wanted to rise from the table and miss a round, so that he could get a mouthful of fresh air at the window and gain a little calm from looking into the silent night. But he sat as if glued to his chair, pressing his elbows down on the crimson cloth, and his thoughts escaped his control, falling into a void like that of deep slumber. And yet he was not really a reckless player. He was accustomed to reflect and to follow the run of luck, making use of chances that were favourable to him, and reducing his stakes when he saw that the odds were against him.