“Well,” said Mrs. Ricketts, as she sat in an adjoining apartment, “have you any tidings of our dear 'Amphytrion?'----is he winning to-night?” The question was addressed to the tall, dark man, who so lately had been standing behind Dalton's chair, and was our old acquaintance, Count Petrolaffsky. “He no win no more, Madame,” replied he, solemnly. “Has he gone away, then?--has he gone home without us?” “He has gone home, indeed----into the other world,” said he, shaking his head. “What do you mean, Count? For Heaven's sake, speak intelligibly.” “I mean as I do say, Madame. He play a game as would ruin Rothschild; always change, and always at de wrong time, and never know when to make his 'paroli.' Ah, dat is de gran' secret of all play; when you know when to make your 'paroli' you win de whole world! Well, he is gone now; poor man, he cannot play no more!” “Martha--Scroope, do go--learn something--see what has happened.” “Oh, here's the Colonel. Colonel Haggerstone, what is this dreadful news I hear?” “Your accomplished friend has taken French leave of you, Madame, and was in such a hurry to go that he wouldn't wait for another turn of the cards.” “He ain't d-d-dead?” screamed Purvis. “I'm very much afraid they insist on burying him tomorrow or next day, under that impression, sir,” said Haggerstone. “What a terrible event!--how dreadful!” said Martha, feelingly; “and his poor daughter, who loved him so ardently!” “That must be thought of,” interrupted Mrs. Ricketts, at once roused to activity by thoughts of self-interest. “Scroope, order the carriage at once. I must break it to her myself. Have you any particulars for me, Colonel?” “None, Madame! If coroners were the fashion here, thay 'd bring in a verdict of died from backing the wrong color, with a deodand against the rake!'” “Yes, it is ver' true, he always play bad,” muttered the Pole. And now the room began to fill with people discussing the late incident in every possible mood and with every imaginable shade of sentiment. A few--a very few--dropped some expressions of pity and compassion. Many preferred to make a display of their own courage by a bantering, scornful tone, and some only saw in the event how unsuited certain natures were to contend with the changeful fortunes of high play. These were, for the most part, Dalton's acquaintances, and who had often told him--at least, so they now took credit for--that “he had no head for play.” Interspersed with these were little discussions as to the immediate cause of death, as full of ignorance and as ingenious as such explanations usually are, all being contemptuously wound up by Haggerstone's remark, “That death was like matrimony,--very difficult when wanted, but impossible to escape when you sought to avoid it!” As this remark had the benefit of causing a blush to poor Martha, he gave his arm to the ladies, with a sense of gratification that came as near happiness as anything he could imagine.