ay give me a
particularly vigorous shampoo. Because, Burgess, I woo my volatile
goddess to-night--the Goddess Chance, Burgess, whose wanton and
naughty eyes never miss the fall of a card. And I desire that all
my senses work like lightning, Burgess, because it is a fast
company and a faster game, and that's why I want an unusually
muscular shampoo!"

"Yes, sir. Poker, sir?"

"I--ah--believe so," said Berkley, lying back in his chair and
closing his eyes. "Go ahead and rub hell into me--if I'll hold any
more."

The pallor, the shadows under eyes and cheeks, the nervous lines at
the corners of the nose, had almost disappeared when Burgess
finished. And when he stood in his evening clothes pulling a
rose-bud stem through the button-hole of his lapel, he seemed very
fresh and young and graceful in the gas-light.

"Am I very fine, Burgess? Because I go where youth and beauty
chase the shining hours with flying feet. Oh yes, Burgess, the
fair and frail will be present, also the dashing and
self-satisfied. And we'll try to make it agreeable all around,
won't we? . . . And don't smoke _all_ my most expensive cigars,
Burgess. I may want one when I return. I hate to ask too much of
you, but you won't mind leaving one swallow of brandy in that
decanter, will you? Thanks. Good night, Burgess."

"Thank _you_, sir. Good night, sir."

As he walked out into the evening air he swung his cane in
glittering circles.

"Nevertheless," he said under his breath, "she'd better be careful.
If she writes again I might lose my head and go to her. You can
never tell about some men; and the road to hell is a lonely
one--damned lonely. Better let a man travel it like a gentleman if
he can. It's more dignified than sliding into it on your back,
clutching a handful of lace petticoat."

He added: "There's only one hell; and it's hell, perhaps, because
there are no women there."

CHAPTER VIII

Berkley, hollow-eyed, ghastly white, but smiling, glanced at the
clock.

"Only one more hand after this," he said. "I open it for the
limit."

"All in," said Cortlandt briefly. "What are you going to do now?"

"_Scindere glaciem_," observed Berkley, "you may give me three
cards, Cortlandt." He took them, scanned his hand, tossed the
discards into the centre of the table, and bet ten dollars.
Through the tobacco smoke drifting in level bands, the crystal
chandeliers in Cortlandt's house glimmered murkily; the cigar haz