“I will have from you all you have won,” replied Ranald, in a tone of such settled resolve that it seemed as if nothing could prevent the accomplishment of his purpose. In vain the lieutenant sought to brace his nerves with his brandy-and-sodas. He played now recklessly and again with over-caution, while Ranald, taking advantage of every slip and every sign of weakness, followed him with relentless determination. With such stakes the game was soon over. It was not long before the lieutenant was stripped of his hundred, while Harry and Mr. Sims had each lost smaller amounts. “You will try another hundred?” said the lieutenant, burning to get revenge. Without a word Ranald laid down his hundred; the others did likewise, and once more the game proceeded. There was no change in Ranald's play. Thorough knowledge of the game, absolute self-command, an instinctive reading of his opponent's mind, and unswerving purpose soon brought about the only result possible. The lieutenant's second hundred with a part of Harry's and Mr. Sims's passed into Ranald's possession. Again De Lacy challenged to play. “No,” said Ranald, “I have done.” He put back into his linen bag his one hundred dollars, counted out two hundred, and gave it to LeNoir, saying: “That is Rouleau's,” and threw the rest upon the table. “I want no man's money,” he said, “that I do not earn.” The lieutenant sprang to his feet. “Hold!” he cried, “you forget, there is something else!” “No,” said Ranald, as Harry and Mr. Sims put themselves in De Lacy's way, “there is nothing else to-night; another day, and any day you wish, you can have the other game,” and with that he passed out of the room. CHAPTER XX HER CLINGING ARMS The ancient capital of Canada--the old gray queen of the mighty St. Lawrence--is a city of many charms and of much stately beauty. Its narrow, climbing streets, with their quaint shops and curious gables, its old market, with chaffering habitant farmers and their wives, are full of living interest. Its noble rock, crowned with the ancient citadel, and its sweeping tidal river, lend it a dignity and majestic beauty that no other city knows; and everywhere about its citadel and walls, and venerable, sacred buildings, there still linger the romance and chivalry of heroic days long gone. But there are times when neither the interests of the living present nor the charms of the romantic past can avail, and so a shadow lay upon Maimie's beautiful face as she sat in the parlor of the Hotel de Cheval Blanc, looking out upon the mighty streets and the huddled roofs of the lower town. She held in her hand an open note. “It is just awfully stupid,” she grumbled, “and I think pretty mean of him!” “Of whom, may I ask?” said Kate, pausing in her singing, “or is there any need? What says the gallant lieutenant?” Maimie tossed her the note.