With a slightly startled air Dalrymple ran over his money. "Pretty nearly three. Why?" "Call it three," George said. He gathered the dice from the table. The others drew back, leaving, as it were, the ring clear. "I'll throw you just once," George said, "for three hundred. High man to throw. On?" "Sure," Dalrymple said, thickly. George counted out his money and placed it on the table. He threw a five. Dalrymple couldn't do better than a four. George rattled the dice, and, rather craving some of the other's Senegambian chatter, rolled them. They rested six and four. Dalrymple didn't try to hide his delight. "Stung, old George Morton! Never come a ten again." "There'll come another ten," George promised. He continued to roll, a trifle self-conscious in his silence, while Dalrymple bent over the table, desirous of a seven, while the others watched, absorbed. Sixes and eights fell, and other numbers, but for half-a-dozen throws no seven or ten. "Come you seven!" Dalrymple sang. "You've luck, George," Lambert commented. "I wouldn't lay against you now. I'll go you fifty, Driggs, on his ten." "Done!" The next throw the dice turned up six and four. "The very greatest of men," Wandel said, ruefully. While George put the money in his pocket Dalrymple straightened, frowning. "Double or quits! Revenge!" "I said once," George reminded him. "I'm off to bed." The others resumed their play. Dalrymple stared at George, an ugly light in his eyes. George nodded, and the other followed him to the door. George handed him a hundred dollars. "Save you running upstairs. How much do you owe me now?" "Couple hundred." "I shouldn't worry about that," George laughed. "When you want a good deal more and it's inconvenient to run upstairs I might save you some trouble." "Now that's white of you," Dalrymple condescended, and went, a trifle unsteadily, back to the table. George carried to his room an impression that he had thoroughly soiled his hands at last, but unavoidably. Of course he had scorned Blodgett for involving Sinclair. His own case was very different. Besides, he hadn't actually involved Dalrymple yet, but he had made a start. Dalrymple had always gunned for him. More than ever since Sylvia's announcement, George felt the necessity of getting Dalrymple where he could handle him. If she had chosen Dalrymple, of course, money would serve only until the greedy youth could get his fingers in the Planter bags. He shook with a quick repugnance. No matter who won her it mustn't be Dalrymple. He would stop that at any cost. He sat for some time on the edge of the bed, studying the pattern of the rug. Was Dalrymple the man to arouse a grand passion in her? She had said: "I can't always be running away from you."