There was no more dangerous place in all London than the Green Table, and Colonel Floyd's whistle was not by any means superfluous.
"And does he win?" he asked.
"Sometimes, but not often," replied the marquis. "Loses four nights out of five. Seems to have lost his game, too. You know how good he was at most things? First rate all round man, you know. But now he seems to have lost his head, and plays like a man in a dream. I saw him miss two points at baccarat last night. Poor old Blair!"
"Poor old Blair!" echoed the colonel. "Can't something be done?"
The young marquis shook his head sadly.
"Who could do anything? In the old times, Blair was as good-natured a fellow as you'd meet in a day's walk; but, by George! as I said, you dare not speak to him now. If one of us were to drop a word signifying that he was going to the devil—well, by jingo! he'd send us there ourselves, and pretty sharp."
"I suppose it was some love affair?" said the colonel, thoughtfully.
"Don't know. Perhaps so. There is one fellow who could tell us, and that's that fellow Austin Ambrose."
The colonel made a grimace.
"I hate that fellow more than ever," he said. "He's back, too, by the way. Shouldn't wonder if he has been with Blair all the time, and isn't, in some way or other, mixed up with the business. I never thought that fellow up to much."