M. de Ville-Rouge threw a dark glance at the winner as he stepped up to Carew to settle his own debt.
“You should not have backed me,” said Sir John ruefully, lifting his eyes from the contemplation of the paper that meant for him another step towards ruin. “The devil’s in it; I will play no more to-night!”
“Nay, then,” cried the Chevalier, “by your leave I will take your place. I for one am no such believer in the continuance of Mr. Jennico’s good luck.”
There was something harsh, almost offensive, in the tone of the last words, and Basil turned in surprise towards the speaker.
“The Chevalier,” he said, “is very ready to risk his gold against me to-night.”
“‘Tis so, sir,” returned the Chevalier, with such singular arrogance that the watchers looked at each other significantly, and Carew whispered to a young man behind his chair, “Faith, our foreign friend is a bad loser after all!”
Basil had flushed, but he made no reply, and contented himself with raising his eyebrows somewhat contemptuously, while he languidly pushed his own dice-box across the table towards his new opponent.
“Come,” said the Chevalier, seizing it and shaking it fiercely, “I will not mince the stake. A hundred guineas on the main.”
He threw, and the result of all his rattling being after all the lowest cast of the evening, there was an ill-suppressed titter round the table. Basil made no attempt to hide his smile as he lazily turned over his dice and threw just one higher.