Those who believe in "influences" might have declared that Baring's was "malignant" to the gambler. He happened to look up, and caught the American's eye. From that moment his vein of good luck seemed to be exhausted. He lost three or four times consecutively.
"I know him," said Alaric. "His name is Melchior, and he is a so-called patron of art—has a collection of modern pictures and a magnificent hotel in Paris, I believe; but I have never been inside it."
The object of their attention wore an engraved emerald—a gem of great value—in his violet-satin tie. His button-hole was a large pink carnation. Though he was dressed in a brown cut-away coat, he still had the air of being more rigidly restrained beneath it than the pliant "Cheviot," innocent of any wrinkle, warranted. On the little finger of one hand was a large diamond; on the other a massive snake, with a ruby head. He paid little attention to any one, but glanced up at Baring, as if to make sure of his identity. A few minutes later he rose, after sweeping up the pile of gold and several notes that yet remained of his gains.
"My luck has turned. It is useless going on any more now," he said to the man near him. Then he sauntered round the table, pursued by two fair ladies, to whom he occasionally threw a word, till he came to where the Americans were standing.
"So, Mr. Baring, we meet here," he said, in remarkably good English. "Are you painting in these parts? I little expected to find you at Monte Carlo."
To some men it is easier to tell a purposeless lie than to speak the truth.
