And then Chester broke in, "Sylvia, do play if you want to play!" he cried rather impatiently. It angered him to feel that she would not do in his presence what she would most certainly have done were he not there. And then Sylvia suddenly made up her mind that she would play. Count Paul was holding the Bank. He was risking--how much was it?--twenty thousand francs. Eight hundred pounds of his legacy? That was madness, absolute madness on his part! Well, she would gamble too! There came across her a curious feeling--one that gave her a certain painful joy--the feeling that they two were one. While he was risking his money, she would try to win his money. Were he in luck to-night, she would be glad to know that it would be her money he would win. M. Wachner officiously made room for her at the table; and, as she sat down, the Comte de Virieu, looking round, saw who had come there, and he flushed and looked away, straight in front of him. "_A Madame la main_," said Monsieur Wachner eagerly indicating Sylvia. And the croupier, with a smile, pushed the two fateful cards towards the fair young Englishwoman. Sylvia took up the two cards. She glanced down at them. Yes, L'Ami Fritz had been right. She was in luck to-night! In a low voice she uttered the welcome words--in French, of course--the words "Nine" and "The King," as she put the cards, face upwards, on the green cloth. And then there came for her and for those who backed her, just as there had done on that first fateful evening at the Casino, an extraordinary run of good fortune. Again and again the cards were dealt to Sylvia, and again and again she turned up a Nine, a Queen, a King, an Eight--. Once more the crowd excitedly followed her luck, staring at her with grateful pleasure, with fascinated interest, as she brought them temporary wealth. The more she won, the more she made other people win, the more miserable Sylvia felt, and as she saw Count Paul's heap of notes and gold diminishing, she grew unutterably wretched. Eight hundred pounds? What an enormous lot of money to risk in an evening! Then there came a change. For a few turns of the game luck deserted her, and Sylvia breathed more freely. She glanced up into Count Paul's impassive face. He looked worn and tired, as well he might be after his long journey from Brittany. Then once more magic fortune came back. It seemed as if only good cards--variations on the fateful eights and nines--could be dealt her. Suddenly she pushed her chair back and got up. Protesting murmurs rose on every side. "If Madame leaves, the luck will go with her!" she heard one or two people murmur discontentedly. Chester was looking at her with amused, sarcastic, disapproving eyes. "Well!" he exclaimed. "I don't wonder you enjoy gambling, Sylvia! Are you often taken this way? How much of that poor fellow's money have you won?" "Ninety pounds," she answered mechanically.