Mr. Smith evidently did not want to have a quarrel, for he walked away and strolled through the rooms, of which there were four.
These rooms were elegantly furnished, provided with sofas and easy-chairs. On the tables were all the best periodicals and magazines, so that frequenters of the gambling-house could while away their time without actually playing.
But the tables possessed a fascination which Smith, as he called himself, could not resist.
He strolled back to the faro game and watched the play, which kept on incessantly.
When one player fell out, another took his place, and so it went on, all night long, till the garish streaks of the gray dawn stole in through the shades of the windows, and the men who turned night into day thought it prudent to go home.
A young and handsome man attracted Mr. Smith's attention. He was well dressed, and had an air of refinement about him. His eyes were bloodshot and his face haggard. His hands clutched the chips nervously, and he was restless, feverish and excited.
He pushed the clustering chestnut locks from his fair brow, and watched the cards as they came out with an eagerness that showed he took more than an ordinary interest in the game.
His luck was villainous.
He lost almost every time, and when he tried to make a "pot" to recoup himself, it was all the same—the wrong card came out.
At length he put his hand in his pocket and found no more money there.