As we advanced, we heard only the rattle of the ball, the click of the chips, and the monotonous tone of the spinner: “Twenty-three, black. Eight, red. Seventeen, black.” It was almost like the boys in a broker's office calling off the quotations of the ticker and marking them up on the board.
Leaning forward, almost oblivious to the rest, was Percival DeLong, a tall, lithe, handsome young man, whose boyish face ill comported with the marks of dissipation clearly outlined on it. Such a boy, it flashed across my mind, ought to be studying the possible plays of football of an evening in the field-house after his dinner at the training-table, rather than the possible gyrations of the little platinum ball on the wheel.
“Curse the luck!” he exclaimed, as “17” appeared again.
A Hebrew banker staked a pile of chips on the “17” to come up a third time. A murmur of applause at his nerve ran through the circle. DeLong hesitated, as one who thought, “Seventeen has come out twice—the odds against its coming again are too great, even though the winnings would be fabulous, for a good stake.” He placed his next bet on another number.
“He's playing Lord Rosslyn's system, to-night,” whispered my friend.
The wheel spun, the ball rolled, and the croupier called again, “Seventeen, black.” A tremor of excitement ran through the crowd. It was almost unprecedented.
DeLong, with a stifled oath, leaned back and scanned the faces about the table.
“And '17' has precisely the same chance of turning up in the next spin as if it had not already had a run of three,” said a voice at my elbow.
It was Kennedy. The roulette-table needs no introduction when curious sequences are afoot. All are friends.
“That's the theory of Sir Hiram Maxim;” commented my friend, as he excused himself reluctantly for another appointment. “But no true gambler will believe it, monsieur, or at least act on it.”