was fingering the "lucky ring." As he caught Dirke's eye he drew the ring from his finger.
"What will you place against that?" he asked, handing it over to the boss. His English was careful and correct, yet as Gallic as his face itself.
Dirke examined the ring judicially, wondering, the while, that it did not burn his fingers. The moment in which he last held it thus was far more vivid to his consciousness than the present instant and the present scene.
"Twenty-five dollars," he said, in his most official tone, as he returned the ring to its owner.
The wheel spun, the ring glittered on the red. The count leaned slightly forward. Dirke watched only the wheel. He had a wild notion that the result was life or death to him, yet why, he could not tell. Then the wheel slackened, the ball hesitated, paused, dropped. Black had won!
M. de Lys turned on his heel and left the table. An hour later the room was empty and the lights were out.
When Dirke passed through the office of the Mountain Lion and stepped out on the veranda, the night was far spent, but the deep June sky was still spangled with stars. He
