“I’ve known better _raconteurs_; but get on with it, if you want to.” “Want to? I must. As a matter of fact, I’ve come to Paris just to tell you about it. And now I can’t.” “She isn’t exactly easy to describe, to—to give the impression of. But remember—I know her.” He had been walking up and down; he jerked himself into a chair, and relit his cigar—it had gone out. “I don’t much remember what we talked about at first—oh, except that she said, ‘I don’t like your gambling, and I should hate to be dependent on your winnings, Arsenio.’—My God, his winnings! He leant across the table towards her—he seemed to forget me altogether for the minute—and said, ‘I never make you even a present out of them except when I back Number 21.’ She blushed at that, like a girl just out of the schoolroom. Rather funny! Some secret between them, I suppose. The beggar was always backing twenty-one; though he very seldom brings it off. What’s his superstition? Did he meet her when she was twenty-one, or marry her when she was, or was it the date when they got married, or what?” “It’s the date—the day of the month—when she and Waldo didn’t get married,” I explained. “By Jove! Then they’re—they’re lovers still!” The inference which Godfrey thus drew seemed to affect him considerably. He sat silent for a minute or two, apparently reflecting on it and frowning sullenly. Then he went on. “Then Valdez said, with one of his grins, ‘Mr. Frost can give you news of some old friends, Lucinda.’ She wasn’t a bit embarrassed at that, but she didn’t seem interested either. She was just decently polite about it—hoped they were all well, was sorry to hear of Waldo’s wound, wished she had happened to meet you and asked if you were coming back—I’d mentioned that you’d gone to Paris on this job of yours. In fact, she didn’t shirk the subject of the family, but she treated it as something that didn’t matter to her; she looked as if she was thinking of something else all the time. She often gives you that kind of impression. Valdez had never referred again to her joining us at the hotel—staying there with us, I mean; and he said nothing about it at this meeting. I could only suppose that she had refused. And now, when she got up to go, he didn’t propose that we, or even he himself, should escort her. I made some suggestion of the kind, but she just said, ‘Oh, no, thank you, I’d rather go by myself.’ And off she went—about half-past nine. We finished the evening playing baccarat—at least I did—at the little hell to which he had already taken me. He seemed very much at home there; all the people of the place knew him, laughed and joked with him; but he didn’t often play there; he doesn’t much care about baccarat. He used to sit talking with the proprietor, a fat old Jew, in the corner, or chatting with the fellow who changed your money for you, with whom he seemed on particularly friendly terms. All that part of it was a bore, but she always went away early, and one