Dalton turned round in his chair, and stared steadfastly at the speaker. His mind was in that state of wild confusion when every conception, however vague and fanciful, assumes a certain degree of reality, and superstitions take on them all the force of warnings. What if his prompter were the devil himself! was it not exactly what he had often heard of? He never saw him there before, and certainly appearances were not much against the hypothesis. He was tall and spare, with a high, narrow forehead, and a pair of most treacherous-looking black eyes, that seemed to let nothing escape their vigilance. Unabashed by or indifferent to Dalton's scrutiny, he went on with his chronicle of the game, noting down the chances, and only muttering a few words to himself. “Nine times red,” said he, as he counted the scores. “Will it go ten?” asked Dalton, with a purposelike energy that showed his faith in the oracle; but the other never heeded the question. “Back de red, I say; back de red dis time,” whispered he in Dalton's ear. “Don't you see that I have no money?” said Dalton, angrily. “Dey will lend on your name; ask for a hundred Naps. Be quick, be quick.” Dalton stooped across the table, and whispered the croupier, who returned a look of doubt and uncertainty. Peter grew more pressing, and the other bent over, and spoke to his colleague. This time the request was not met with a smile and a bland bow, and Dalton watched with angry impatience all the signs of hesitation and deliberation between them. “Say your banker is closed,--that you must have de moneys,” whispered the dark man. “Must I wait till the bank is open to-morrow morning,” said Dalton, “or do you mean to give me this trifle?” “Our rules are strictly opposed to the practice of lending, Count,” whispered the croupier at his side; “we have already transgressed them in your favor, and--” “Oh, don't inconvenience the Count,” interposed his colleague. “How much is it?” “Say two hundred,--two!” muttered the unknown. “Two hundred Naps.,” cried Dalton, resolutely. “This will make five hundred and forty to-night, Count.” “And if it was five thousand,” said Peter, running his fingers through the gold with ecstasy, “what matter? There goes fifty on the red.” “Ah, you play too rash,” whispered the dark man. “What business is it of yours? am I your ward?” cried Dalton, passionately, for the stake was lost in the instant. “Bed, again fifty. May I never! if I don't believe 'tis _you_ brings me the bad luck,” said Dalton, darting a savage glance at the other, whose impassive face never betrayed the slightest emotion. “I no wish to disturb your game, saar,” was the meek reply of the dark man; and with a bow of meek humility he backed through the crowd and disappeared. In a moment Dalton felt shocked at his own rudeness, and would have given worlds to have recalled his words, or even apologized for them; but other thoughts soon supplanted these, and again his whole heart was in the game.