atter of course. From this moment my good-luck deserted me.

"Courage, Monsieur," said my amiable neighbour; "you have only to play
long enough, and you are sure to win."

In the meantime, I kept following Dalrymple with my eyes, for there was
something in his manner that filled me with vague uneasiness. Sometimes
he drew near the table and threw down a Napoleon, but without heeding
the game, or caring whether he won or lost. He was always looking to the
door, or wandering restlessly from table to table. Watching him thus, I
thought how haggard he looked, and what deep channels were furrowed in
his brow since that day when we lay together on the autumnal grass under
the trees in the forest of St. Germain.

Thus a long time went by, and I found by my watch that it was nearly
four o'clock in the morning--also that I had lost six hundred francs out
of the thousand. It seemed incredible. I could hardly believe that the
time and the money had flown so fast. I rose in my seat and looked round
for Dalrymple; but in vain. Could he be gone, leaving me here?
Impossible! Apprehensive of I knew not what, I pushed back my chair, and
left the table. The rooms were now much fuller--more stars and
moustachios; more velvets and laces, and Paris diamonds. Fresh tables,
too, had been opened for _lansquenet, baccarat_, and _ecarte_. At one of
these I saw M. de Simoncourt. When he laid down his cards for the deal,
I seized the opportunity to inquire for my friend.

He pointed to a small inner room divided by a rich hanging from the
farther end of the _salon_.

"You will find Major Dalrymple in Madame de Ste. Amaranthe's boudoir,
playing with M. le Vicomte de Caylus," said he, courteously, and
resumed his game.

Playing with De Caylus! Sitting down amicably with De Caylus! I could
not understand it.

Crowded as the rooms now were, it took me some time to thread my way
across, and longer still, when I had done so, to pass the threshold of
the boudoir, and obtain sight of the players. The room was very small,
and filled with lookers-on. At a table under a chandelier sat De Caylus
and Dalrymple. I could not see Dalrymple's face, for his back was turned
towards me; but the Vicomte I recognised at once--pale, slight, refined,
with the old look of dissipation and irritability, and the same
restlessness of eye and hand that I had observed on first seeing him.
They were evidently playing high, and each had a pile of notes and gold
lying at h