cognac, and tossed it off to the health of his antagonist. The latter, who had been partaking somewhat more freely of the liquor than Adair, acknowledged the compliment, but did not imitate his friend for life.
“You are quite right to be timid and sober,” said Adair. “I am a terrible player. Keep your eye on me.”
“I shall do that,” replied M. Haureau, almost rudely, looking his man straight in the face, and bringing down his cards on the table with a noise never heard where gentlemen cheat one another.
“Spare our friend’s furniture,” said Ernest, with a sneer, “unless you intend to present him with your winnings.”
“They will not be much,” replied the other, “according to what I hear.”
“Of my play?” asked Adair, gaily.
“Of your means, on the contrary,” said M. Haureau, with a coarse laugh. “But we won’t ruin you, if we can help it.”
“How good you are!” said Ernest Adair, blandly. And with these amiable preludes they got to work.
They played slowly at first, afterwards more rapidly, for each had perceived, from indications well known to the professors of the art, that any vulgar cheating would be instantly detected by his friend. And they played in a vicious silence.
“Well, I have not hurt you much, M. the Englishman,” said Haureau, after about an hour had passed. Ernest, in fact, was a slight winner.
“Not in my pocket,” replied Adair. “But your nervousness and vigilance are not complimentary. I thought that you sailors had more dash.”
“Who told you I was a sailor?” demanded Haureau, fiercely.
“I can smell the tar on your hands from where I sit,” replied Adair. “But, as you would say, that proves nothing—at least it would prove nothing in England.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing. Only that in England the same odour is often found in hands that never handled a rope—except to pick it to pieces.”
He, in his turn, looked steadily at his friend for life, but whether the full insolence of the speech was not comprehended by the latter, or whether his self-command was considerable, he only replied,
“Are you afraid to go on?”
“No, but it is hardly worth while, for such stakes. I wish Silvain would bring us some supper.”
“Play away, and perhaps you’ll be rich enough to dine to-morrow better than I suppose you did to-day.”
Adair smiled, and proposed to treble the stakes.
“Oh, if that will suit your finances, it will suit mine,” said Haureau, rattling money in his pocket.
“If I am unfortunate, my dear friend Silvain will be delighted to help me,” said Adair.
“I make no doubt of it,” said Haureau, drily. And they played again, and the sketching imp might have noticed, with admiration, Adair’s distended nostril and the rapid manipulations of his cards. His antagonist, on the contrary, seemed to take the work more easily, and once or twice refreshed himself at the cognac bottle.
When they next stopped, Adair was a considerable winner. He counted and pouched the gold, looking pleasantly at Haureau.
“I shall dine well to-morrow,” said Ernest.
“I hope so,” said his companion. “But I must have my revenge.”
“The sentiment is unworthy of a Christian,” said Adair, yawning, and rising. “Where the devil is that Silvain and his supper?” And he was going to open the door, when M. Haureau laid a hand of iron on his arm.
“Sit down,” he said, pressing Adair back towards his seat. “I’ll have my revenge, I tell you.”
And strong as was Adair, he found that he was no match for the Frenchman. He yielded to the ungentle suasion, and resumed his seat.
“Luck is against you,” he said. “Don’t blame me, if I double my winnings.”
“That depends,” said Haureau, significantly. “Do not play too fast.”
Ernest Adair’s eyes shone savagely, but he did not answer. He took another glass of brandy, and then, seizing the cards, shuffled them slowly. Then they got to work for the third time, but not for long. Some ten minutes might have elapsed, and the luck was still with Adair, when, as he was putting a card on the table, Haureau brought his mighty hand down upon the delicate hand of Adair, which the blow seemed actually to flatten on the board.
“Hold it there, and give me the card from your lap,” shouted Haureau, keeping Adair’s hand down, as in a vice.
Ernest uttered a fierce oath, and had there been a candlestick beside him, would have dashed it on the head of the other; but the table was lighted by a small swinging lamp, and the bottle at which he next glanced was just beyond his reach.
“Let go, scoundrel!” he cried.
“You are the scoundrel. That card,” demanded Haureau, in a voice of thunder.
The sketching imp will not, until he returns home, see such a fire as sprang up in the eyes of the infuriated gambler. Maddened with shame, pain, and rage, he started to his feet, and suddenly thrust the disengaged hand into his bosom. The next instant steel glittered, and a small poniard was driven deep into the ponderous arm that fastened him down to the table.
Haureau’s angry roar was answered by the door being thrown open, and by the appearance of a couple of gendarmes. They were accompanied by M. Silvain, and appeared completely to understand the situation.
“I assured them that you were not quarrelling,” said Silvain, with much earnestness, “and that you were the best friends in the world—friends for life, in fact; but there is no making an official understand anything but what he sees.”
What they saw was an exasperated man holding a poniard, and another with a grin of rage and pain trying to staunch the blood that was flowing