As his eyes grew accustomed to the light he stepped forward into the room, only to stand still again and remain motionless, as though turned to stone. For there, at a long table in the centre of the room, with piles of gold and notes before her, heavily veiled, sat--Mademoiselle Vseslavitch. A little cry which Paul could not prevent breaking from his lips drew the eyes of all upon him. Mademoiselle herself glanced up and saw his gaze upon her. She started and instantly Paul turned away and endeavoured to hide himself amid the odd jumble of men who stood round the table watching the play. "What was she doing here?" Paul thought. A thousand bewildering conjectures flashed into his brain, only to prove inadequate. Try as he might he could not reconcile the so obvious fact that she was a lady with the peculiar incidents which trod hard upon each other's heels. He recalled the meeting with the strange Frenchman, which still remained a most baffling mystery. Unconsciously, Paul took note of the men who hemmed the table in. Every type of face presented itself--the fleshy cheeks of middle-aged Jews, of pale clerks and salesmen, prosperous-looking men who might have been commercial travellers, and here and there a more refined-looking man in evening-dress. A few were still playing, but the majority were watching the fortunes of the veiled lady. She was, besides, the only woman in the room. Paul stood for a few moments and watched her play. Nor was it difficult, even to his unpracticed eye, to see that she had begun to wage a losing fight against the bank. Draped in a long opera cloak from which her bare arms were thrust, she sat forward eagerly in her chair, her lips trembling, her eyes bright as stars. Her face and figure were in extraordinary contrast to her surroundings. Every man in the room, Paul thought, appeared to feel that he was in the presence of one who not only had the right, but the power, to command respect, and the coarse faces by which she was surrounded surveyed her with a certain deference. As the game went on and the _croupier_ monotonously raked in the winnings of the bank, Paul suddenly divined the motive which had induced the lady to come there. Undoubtedly it was the hope that she might win enough to satisfy the cruel demands of those who persecuted her. Quite evidently disturbed by his entrance, for the next few minutes she had apparently lost all track of the successful theory which she had been following. And Paul knew well enough that if a good player once becomes unnerved, his luck, for some strange reason, will change with his mood, and no efforts, however bold or desperate, will avail him anything.