Dirk’s apartment consisted of two rooms situated upon the first floor of an old house in a street that had ceased to be fashionable. Once, however, it had been a fine house, and, according to the ideas of the time, the rooms themselves were fine, especially the sitting chamber, which was oak-panelled, low, and spacious, with a handsome fireplace carrying the arms of its builder. Out of it opened his sleeping room—which had no other doorway—likewise oak-panelled, with tall cupboards, not unlike the canopy of a tomb in shape and general appearance. The hour came, and with it the guests. The feast began, the cooks streamed up and down bearing relays of dishes from the inn. Above the table hung a six-armed brass chandelier, and in each of its sockets guttered a tallow candle furnishing light to the company beneath, although outside of its bright ring there was shadow more or less dense. Towards the end of dinner a portion of the rush wick of one of these candles fell into the brass saucer beneath, causing the molten grease to burn up fiercely. As it chanced, by the light of this sudden flare, Montalvo, who was sitting opposite to the door, thought that he caught sight of a tall, dark figure gliding along the wall towards the bedroom. For one instant he saw it, then it was gone. “_Caramba_, my friend,” he said, addressing Dirk, whose back was turned towards the figure, “have you any ghosts in this gloomy old room of yours? Because, if so, I think I have just seen one.” “Ghosts!” answered Dirk, “no, I never heard of any; I do not believe in ghosts. Take some more of that pasty.” Montalvo took some more pasty, and washed it down with a glass of wine. But he said no more about ghosts—perhaps an explanation of the phenomenon had occurred to him; at any rate he decided to leave the subject alone. After the dinner they gambled, and this evening the stakes began where those of the previous night left off. For the first hour Dirk lost, then the luck turned and he won heavily, but always from Montalvo. “My friend,” said the captain at last, throwing down his cards, “certainly you are fated to be unfortunate in your matrimonial adventures, for the devil lives in your dice-box, and his highness does not give everything. I pass,” and he rose from the table. “I pass also,” said Dirk following him into the window place, for he wished to take no more money. “You have been very unlucky, Count,” he said. “Very, indeed, my young friend,” answered Montalvo, yawning, “in fact, for the next six months I must live on—well—well, nothing, except the recollection of your excellent dinner.” “I am sorry,” muttered Dirk, confusedly, “I did not wish to take your money; it was the turn of those accursed dice. See here, let us say no more about it.”