The dinner passed off much as the first had done. Similar grisly jokes were interchanged in the French tongue, and many bets were concluded between Sir William and his guests. They toasted the tubercle bacillus again, and after I had served the nut cream Mr. Cavanagh handed a cheque for £7,000 to Sir William and then resigned his office in favour of Dr. Fulton, just as Mr. Pardoe had done upon the former occasion. I noticed that Mr. Pardoe looked very ill, frightfully ill, in fact, and his cough was horrible to hear. It is true that all looked worse than they had before, but Mr. Pardoe had outstripped the others, and he was mercilessly rallied on his appearance. The most consequential wager was arranged between Mr. Humphreys and Sir Charles Venner. The latter laid the former six to four in hundreds that Mr. Pardoe would die within the next month. I shall never forget Mr. Pardoe's face as he listened. Its expression was indescribably vexed and full of despair, but the others roared with laughter to see it. As for me, I confess that their laughter sickened me, and I had to slip out of the room in order to recover my nerve. Such monstrous disregard of a fellow creature's manifest anguish inspired me with dismay and something like terror. Were these people men of flesh and blood, I asked myself, or ghouls? But my curiosity was so poignant that I soon returned, and when they trooped out to the card room I followed closely at their heels.
The same formula was observed as upon the first occasion that I had witnessed. The cheque was placed upon the table and all gathered round to watch and throw the dice.
Sir Charles Venner was the first to cast. As he rattled the box he looked about him with a sort of snarling smile. "By all the laws of chance it should be my turn!" he declared. "I have never won the incubus yet!"
He threw eighteen! The others exclaimed, but Mr. Cavanagh did more. He stepped back from the throng and gritting his teeth he threw out his clenched hands with a gesture of savage abandon. "There," said I to myself, "is a man who wishes more passionately to win than the rest, but why?"
"Cavanagh, your turn," said Dr. Fulton.
The artist's face was chalk white as he took up the box. "You tremble!" cried Sir Charles in mocking tones. "You tremble!"
"Bah!" exclaimed Mr. Cavanagh, and he threw.
"Eighteen!" shouted Dr. Fulton.
Sir Charles flushed crimson, and swore beneath his breath. But Mr. Cavanagh uttered a cry of triumph that had yet in it a note of agony. I watched him attentively thenceforward, because it suddenly occurred to me that he would better repay such trouble than the others. His passions were least well controlled of any there. His was the weakest face and most ingenuous. I determined that he should be my key to the mystery I wished to solve. He was a wonderfully handsome person, small, slight, elegant, exquisite. His hair was thick and black, but his moustache and pointed beard were of rich red gold. He had large and singularly soulful eyes, whose colour changed with light from black to amber. His mouth, however, though full and beautifully shaped, betrayed a vacillating and unstable disposition. I judged him for a man to trust, to admire, to like, but not to lean upon. He waited for his turn to throw again in a fever of inquietude. His hands clenched and unclenched. His features spasmodically twitched and the tip of his nose moved up and down with alarming speed. Not any of the others was lucky enough to throw eighteen, so presently Sir Charles Venner took up the dice again. He looked perfectly indifferent, but I saw his eyes, and they were gleaming. He allowed the dice to fall one by one.
"Seven!" announced Dr. Fulton.