"It's so beguiling--that first luck," Agatha sighed. "And then, when the luck goes, there's the necessity and hope of getting the losses back. The demon of chance sits there, I suppose, like a great spider, weaving, weaving his poison-webs, till the poor fly, caught and tangled hopelessly all round, can struggle no more. And people live on this--on these blighted lives, broken homes, shattered hearts, and widespread misery and despair! Have you seen the cathedral, Mrs. Allonby--that snow-white, brand-new, dazzling immensity of marble at Monaco, flaunting among the palms and pines and flowers, all built out of these cruel gains, these despairs and miseries and degradations? And that palace? Nearly all the palace is new, built out of Casino winnings, as you remember." "Perhaps that's why it's so vulgar. You want to wipe it out of the picture--cathedral and palace, too, built of money." "Not of money," she said, her eyes shining with a hard brilliance. "No, built of broken hearts--women's hearts, mothers' hearts, wives' hearts. Oh, to see the whole accursed monstrosity levelled to the ground! I cannot speak of it." What did this sudden passion mean, Ermengarde wondered; then she remembered the "connexion by marriage," and was sorry for her. "According to Mr. Welbourne, it is not the gamblers who make the income," she said. "It is the people who stop a few days at Monte Carlo, and throw away a couple of louis at the tables to pass the time. After all, most amusements have to be paid for, and what enjoyment is not liable to abuse?" "Enjoyment," cried Agatha, "enjoyment!" "The gambling instinct, the delight in the excitement of chance, seems pretty deeply rooted in human nature." "What vile passion is not deeply rooted in human nature? Mrs. Allonby, I could tell you tragedies. But no----" Could anything be more moral, correct, and praise-worthy than this impetuous outburst? And yet, on the very next day, who should Ermengarde meet in the Casino, coming out of the _Salle de Jeu_, but the woman of mystery herself? Not alone, certainly, but in earnest conversation with the ubiquitous and elusive Anarchist, whom she began to suspect of being no creature of flesh and blood, but some sinister spirit haunting her path with evil intent. So absorbed in their talk were those two that they passed her without recognition, as she turned aside to go into the concert-hall with the American lady and the thin man, who chanced to be with her that day.