ble. Her neighbour whispered something which at once caused her to take
up two napoleons and a ten-franc piece from the pile of gold in front of
her. Very deliberately she placed the coins within the ruled-off space
reserved for the stakes.

Bill Chester, staring across at her, felt as if he were in a
nightmare--gazing at something which was not real, and which would
vanish if looked at long enough.

Could that lovely young woman, who sat there, looking so much at home,
with the little rake in her hand be Sylvia Bailey, the quiet young widow
whose perfect propriety of conduct had always earned the praise of those
matrons of Market Dalling, whom Chester's own giddier sisters called by
the irreverent name of "old cats"? It was fortunate that none of these
respectable ladies could see Sylvia now!

To those who regard gambling as justifiable, provided the gambler's
means allow of it, even to those who habitually see women indulging in
games of chance, there will, of course, be something absurd in the point
of view of the solicitor. But to such a man as Bill Chester, the sight
of the woman for whom he had always felt a very sincere respect, as well
as a far more enduring and jealous affection than he quite realised,
sitting there at a public gaming table, was a staggering--nay, a
disgusting--spectacle.

He reminded himself angrily that Sylvia had a good income--so good an
income that she very seldom spent it all in the course of any one year.
Why, therefore, should she wish to increase it?

Above all, how could she bear to mingle with this queer, horrid crowd?
Why should she allow herself to be contaminated by breathing the same
air as some of the women who were there round her? She and the stout,
middle-aged person standing behind her were probably the only
"respectable" women in the Club.

And then, it was all so deliberate! Chester had once seen a man whom he
greatly respected drunk, and the sight had ever remained with him. But,
after all, a man may get drunk by accident--nay, it may almost be said
that a man always gets drunk by accident. But, in this matter of risking
her money at the baccarat table, Sylvia Bailey knew very well what she
was about.

With a thrill of genuine distress the lawyer asked himself whether she
had not, in very truth, already become a confirmed gambler. It was with
an assured, familiar gesture that Sylvia placed her money on the green
cloth, and then with what intelligent knowledge she