of big full-flavoured cigars, of the brand of _Anselmo del Valle_. Lamb fills his case, and lights this the _ne plus ultra_ of a soothing weed. "Dutch courage, Lammy, my boy," remarked Spunyarn, as he calmly helps himself to one of the youth's cigars. "You'd be doing the same, Shirtings, if you'd been hit at this beast of a game as I have." "Shirtings" was the playful name bestowed on the noble lord, in reference to the well-known fact that the Spunyarn money had been made in a Manchester cotton mill, and with that money it was said that the Spunyarn title had been paid for; the first gentleman in Europe not disdaining such bargains. Lamb swallows a second glass of his panacea. The real fact is that the boy likes it because it is sweet, the after-taste indistinctly resembling the distant memories of the peppermint bull's-eyes of his early youth. But green Chartreuse unhappily is not innocent; it is more than a spirit, it is a powerful drug. Fired by this second draught, his tired eyes already a ferrety red, his mouth dry with the tobacco, the drink and the excitement, Lamb in a rasping voice shouts, "Banco." There is a sudden hush. The whist players, who had finished for the evening, hurry to the baccarat table; the other players, some of whom had already staked their money, reluctantly withdraw their various amounts. The croupier announces, intoning as does a high-church curate, "There is seven hundred and forty pounds in the bank, gentlemen." Lamb with shaking fingers places the required amount in front of him. Haggard, the dealer, apparently unconcerned, continues the game. There is a dead silence. Neither dealer or punter take a third card. The cards are turned. The dealer has an eight and king, the punter a five and three. _A tie._ The perspiration stands on young Lamb's face; again his cigar goes out. The croupier pushes the seven hundred and forty pounds of the unlucky player a foot nearer to the bank. The next _coup_ will decide the matter. If Lamb wins, he will get his own money back, if he loses, then his money is gone for good. Again a dead silence, again the cards are dealt; this time the bank wins; there is a loud noise of excited talking, above which rises the monotonous chant of the croupier, "There is fourteen hundred and eighty pounds in the bank, gentlemen."