"But if you lose that?" "Put up thirty-two...." "But if you have not thirty-two guineas to put up?" urged Sir Michael, who was obstinate. "Nay! then, my friend," said Lord Walterton with a laugh which soon broke into an ominous hiccough, "ye must not in that case play upon my system." "Well said, my lord," here interposed Endicott, who had most moderately partaken of a cup of hypocras, and whose eye and hand were as steady as heretofore. "Well said, pardi! ... My old friend the Marquis of Swarthmore used oft to say in the good old days of Goring's Club, that 'twas better to lose on a system, than to play on no system at all." "A smart cavalier, old Swarthmore," assented Sir Michael gruffly, "and nathless, a true friend to you, Endicott," he added significantly. "Another deal, Master Endicott," said Segrave, who for the last quarter of an hour had vainly tried to engage the bank-holder's attention. Nor was Lord Walterton averse to this. The more the wine got into his head, the more unsteady his hand became, the more strong was his desire to woo the goddess whose broken-nosed image seemed to be luring him to fortune. "You are right, Master Segrave," he said thickly, "we are wasting valuable time. Who knows but what old Noll's police-patrol is lurking in this cutthroat alley? ... Endicott, take the bank again.... I'll swear I'll ruin ye ere the moon--which I do not see--disappears down the horizon. Sir Michael, try my system.... Overbury, art a laggard? ... Let us laugh and be merry--to-morrow is the Jewish Sabbath--and after that Puritanic Sunday ... after which mayhap, we'll all go to hell, driven thither by my Lord Protector. Wench, another bumper ... canary, sack or muscadel ... no thin Rhenish wine shall e'er defile this throat! Gentlemen, take your places.... Mistress Endicott, can none of these wenches discourse sweet music whilst we do homage to the goddess of Fortune? ... To the tables ... to the tables, gentlemen ... here's to King Charles, whom may God protect ... and all in defiance of my Lord Protector!" CHAPTER XVI A CONFLICT In the hubbub which immediately followed Lord Walterton's tirade, Editha de Chavasse beckoned to the florid woman--who seemed to be her henchwoman--and drew her aside to a distant corner of the room, where there were no tables nigh and where the now subdued hum of the voices, mingling with the sound of music on virginal and stringed instruments, made a murmuring noise which effectually drowned the talk between the two women. "Have you arranged everything, Mistress Endicott?" asked Editha, speaking in a whisper. "Everything, mistress," replied the other. "Endicott understands?" "Perfectly," said the woman, with perceptible hesitation, "but ..." "What ails you, mistress?" asked Editha haughtily, noting the hesitation, and frowning with impatience thereat. "My husband thinks the game too dangerous."