There he goes, dreamily threading his solitary way across to the rooms; yet are his thoughts not with those five poor francs; they are, with his eyes, fixed on a certain window in the hotel opposite, and wondering what is the earliest hour _she_ can be ‘_de retour_.’ But, heigh-ho! the portals are reached, and lo! one must think of that dinner. What is one five-franc piece? Truly not much, yet something in maiden hands. The rooms are full; it is the gambler’s noon. _Le petit_ finds himself wedged in between a swarthy Roumanian Jew, who is sowing louis broadcast ‘_en plein_’ and ‘_à cheval_,’ and an English lady, of undetermined age but determined spirit, who is shedding her weekly bill in five-franc pieces. The Roumanian soweth, but he reapeth not, and he rises with a scowl and a shrug, and _le petit_ slips into his seat. He is _sitting_ down with one five-franc piece. _Mon petit!_ truly thou art--what one calls--very green. Yet he has watched the game before, this young bantling. ‘_Quatre premier_,’ he cries, and manfully throws down the fateful piece. The little white ball is already spinning with its merry rattle of life and death--it stops. ‘_Deux, noir, paire et manque._’ The ever-busy rake pushes over to him two louis. And now ‘_Trente-quatre, trente-six, deux louis, sil vous plait._’ The obliging croupier places them--once again the merry rattle. ‘_Trente-six_,’ says the sing-song voice. ‘Bravo, _mon petit_, here is the price of the dinner with interest.’ Prudence personified, he places fifteen louis out of the twenty-four in an inner pocket and prepares to do or die with the rest. Yes, yes, how well I remember the tall Englishman behind saying to his friend, ‘Sportsman, that young beggar! I shall follow him.’ _Le petit’s_ English has been picked up on a Straits Settlements trader, but the tall Englishman he understands and appreciates. He is playing on _rouge_ now. A run of four; already by his side are piled the louis mountains high. ‘_Messieurs, faites le jeu._’ ‘_Cent louis, rouge._’ ‘_Le jeu est fait--rouge_;’ again and again, and yet again comes red, and each time _le petit_ wins. Now he is staking the limit, and winning still, the multitude wondering, with that rising murmur of praise and plaint that ever attends a big winner’s fortunes. Suddenly he looks up. Standing opposite to him is a tall woman with dark eyes, lovely to behold, and she is watching him with a curious look, not of pity, not of contempt, not of passion, yet with something of all three. He starts, half rising, and makes a motion to leave the table. ‘_Messieurs, faites le jeu_,’--the murmur grows. ‘Follow the run up; play your luck out, sir,’ says the big Englishman. _Le petit_ hurriedly counts out the limit and pushes it on to _rouge_--the ball stops. ‘_Noir_,’ drawls the croupier, in a triumphant sing-song; the run is broken, but _le petit_, sweeping the remains of his winnings into his pocket, is no longer in his seat.