Among the players were the usual club _habitués_. They are much the same everywhere, the only difference being their clothes. The _viveurs_ at the Pandemonium, in their faultless evening dress; the _gommeux_ at Monte Carlo, in their tall collars and their shiny boots; the Bohemians, in their tobacco-scented and eccentric garments; or the thieves playing at sixpenny loo in St. Luke's--all these people are at heart the same. But we must not class in this unclean category Lord Spunyarn and his friend Haggard, who were both playing at the big table. Haggard merely played for the excitement, and Spunyarn because it was a lesser bore to play than to look on. The game was baccarat. The table is covered with a tightly-stretched green cloth, which is divided by yellow lines into fourteen spaces; two larger ones in the centre of the table are the places of the banker and the croupier; twelve other spaces of a smaller size indicate the seats of the rest of the players, or "punters," as they are technically termed. The table is full, as has been stated: a bank has just been terminated, and the banker retires, having lost the whole amount of his bank. The croupier, who is, of course, a professional--a bald Frenchman, nominally one of the card-room waiters--looks round the table with the air of an auctioneer. "Fifty pounds--seventy-five--a hundred--two hundred--two hundred and fifty--three hundred; thank you, sir. Mr. Haggard takes the bank, gentlemen, at three hundred pounds." Haggard rises with a smile, seats himself in the dealer's vacant place, opposite the croupier; he places in front of him a pile of gold and notes. With the rapidity of one of Messrs. Coutts' young men, the French croupier counts the money; he arranges the gold in little piles, and the notes in three little heaps, placing a small paper-weight on each heap. Then the croupier tears open two packets of new cards, flinging the old ones into a waste-paper basket at his side. He invites various players to make the cards; this is done in rather a perfunctory manner. With a sort of huge paper-knife the Frenchman passes the cards to Haggard, and as he does so, remarks in a clear, but mechanical voice: "Gentlemen, the bank is opened for three hundred pounds." Haggard takes the cards, and, dividing them into two equal parts, rapidly shuffles them, by raising a corner of each parcel simultaneously, and letting the corners slip with a rapid "brrr." Evidently, from the dexterity and precision with which this feat is accomplished, Georgie Warrender's affianced lover is no novice. He hands the cards to his right-hand neighbour, who carefully cuts them; each player puts forth his stake towards the middle of the table, in front of the space allotted him. These stakes are gold only as yet, and no man's venture seems over five pounds. Haggard takes up about a sixth part of the cards. "Gentlemen," cries the croupier, "the game is made." Haggard places a card to the left, for that half of the table;