right, and the hands dealing out the cards were well-shaped
and muscular. Somehow he looked very different, she could hardly explain
how or why, from the men round him.

At last she moved round, so as to avoid being opposite to him.

Yes, she felt more comfortable now, and slowly, almost insensibly, the
glamour of play began to steal over Sylvia Bailey's senses. She began to
understand the at once very simple and, to the uninitiated, intricate
game of Baccarat--to long, as Anna Wolsky longed, for the fateful nine,
eight, five, and four to be turned up.

She had fifty francs in her purse, and she ached to risk a gold piece.

"Do you think I might put down ten francs?" she whispered to Anna.

And the other laughed, and exclaimed, "Yes, of course you can!"

Sylvia put down a ten-franc piece, and a moment later it had become
twenty francs.

"Leave it on," murmured Anna, "and see what happens--"

Sylvia followed her friend's advice, and a larger gold piece was added to
the two already there.

She took up the forty francs with a curious thrill of joy and fear.

But then an untoward little incident took place. One of the liveried
men-servants stepped forward. "Has Madame got her card of membership?"
he inquired smoothly.

Sylvia blushed painfully. No, she had not got a card of membership--and
there had been an implied understanding that she was only to look on, not
play.

She felt terribly ashamed--a very unusual feeling for Sylvia Bailey--and
the gold pieces she held in her hand, for she had not yet put them in her
purse, felt as if they burnt her.

But she found a friend, a defender in an unexpected quarter. The Count
rose from the table. He said a few words in a low tone to the servant,
and the man fell back.

"Of course, this young lady may play," he addressed Anna, "and as Banker
I wish her all good luck! This is probably her first and her last visit
to Lacville." He smiled pleasantly, and a little sadly. Sylvia noticed
that he had a low, agreeable voice.

"Take her away, Madame, when she has won a little more! Do not give her
time to lose what she has won."

He spoke exactly as if Sylvia was a child. She felt piqued, and Madame
Wolsky stared at him rather haughtily. Still, she was grateful for his
intervention.

"We thank you, Monsieur," she said stiffly. "But I think we have been
here quite long enough."

He bowed, and again sat down.

"I will now take you a drive, Sylvia. We have had sufficient