A faint murmur of admiration passed round the onlookers: this clean-shaven, steady-eyed man with the whimsical smile was a gambler after their own hearts. Then in a couple of minutes he was forgotten: players at the Ultima Thule are, in the main, a selfish brand of individual. Possibly had they suspected the utter hopelessness seething behind the impassive face of the man who stood by the buffet eating a caviare sandwich and drinking a glass of champagne, they might not have forgotten him so quickly. But they did not suspect: Billy Merton saw to that. It was only as he turned to help himself to another sandwich that a look of despair came into his eyes. No one could see: the mask could slip for a moment. Ahead lay ruin and disgrace. The cheque could not be met next morning: there was no human possibility of raising the money in the time. And to the descendant of a long race of gamblers there was something peculiarly abhorrent in failing over a debt of honour. "Bad luck—that last hand of yours, sir." A thick-set, middle-aged man beside him was making a careful study of the various edibles. "Just came up in time to see the show-down." "I have known the cards run better," answered Merton, curtly. "I can see that you’re a born gambler," continued the man, "and being one myself—though not in this particular line—one has, if one may say so, a sort of fellow-feeling." He was munching a sandwich and staring round the room as he spoke. "The nerve, sir—the nerve required to stake everything on the turn of a card—on the rise or fall of a market—by Heaven, it’s the only thing in life!" Almost against his will—for he was in no mood for talking—Billy Merton smiled. "Your game is the Stock Exchange, is it?" "It is, sir—and there’s no game like it in the world. Even when ruin stares you in the face, you’ve still got till next settling day. You’ve still got a chance." "I wish the same thing applied here," said Merton, with a hard laugh. "As bad as that, is it?" remarked the other, sympathetically. "Never mind: the luck will change. I guess there have been times when I’ve felt like stealing or forging or doing any other blamed thing under the sun to put my hand on some ready money." Merton smiled mirthlessly, and said nothing. The point of view coincided rather too unpleasantly with his own. "And mark you, sir," continued the stranger, dogmatically. "I’ve got a greater respect for a man who wins through, by fair means if possible—but, if not, by foul—than for the weakling who goes down and out. The first, at any rate, is a _man_." Again Merton smiled. "Leaving out the ethical side of your contention, sir," he remarked, "there are one or two small practical difficulties that occur to one’s mind. It is sometimes as difficult to find the foul means as it is to find the fair. Burglary and forging rank high amongst the arts, I believe, which are not taught at most of the public schools."