gambling instinct was an inheritance from some reckless, swashbuckling ancestor.
Others would hold, and more likely they were right, it was the result of the heedless, rushing pace set by the crowd with whom she lived and moved and danced and had her being.
Yet few of that crowd, if any, played so desperately, so feverishly or so continuously as Madeleine.
And none lost so much. Although really a fine player, she seemed one of those who have persistent bad luck, and if she won, she was quite likely to lose all her winnings on one last high-stake game before she stopped.
She loved the excitement of it, the hazard of it, the uncertainty.
And she had the optimism of the true gambler, who always thinks his luck just about to turn to better and to best, quite undaunted by the fact that it never does.
She reconnoitered. She was in desperate straits. If she didn’t pay up last night’s debts to-night, before beginning to play, her creditors, two unprincipled women, had threatened to tell her husband of the situation.
Andrew knew she played Bridge—frequently—almost incessantly—but he had no idea of the height of her stakes, or the terrific amounts she lost.
Always before, her mother had helped her out. Always before, she had won enough to tide over, at least. Always before—she had managed by hook or by crook to keep above water.
But to-night she was desperate. Something must be done—and done quickly.
“Mrs. Sayre on the wire,” Claudine announced, and as Madeleine took up the receiver, the maid left the room.
“Hello, Rosamond,” Madeleine said, “come over a few moments, can’t you?”
