“What was it the old fellow muttered as he passed?” said Calvert; “he spoke in German, and I didn’t understand him.”
“It was something about a line in your forehead that will bring you bad luck yet.”
“I have heard that before,” cried he, springing hastily up. “I wish I could get him to tell me more;” and he hastened down the stairs after the old man, but when he gained the street he missed him; he hurried in vain on this side and that; no trace of him remained. “If I were given to the credulous, I’d say that was the fiend in person,” muttered Calvert, as he slowly turned towards his inn.
He tried in many ways to forget the speech that troubled him; he counted over his winnings; they were nigh fourteen thousand francs; he speculated on all he might do with them; he plotted and planned a dozen roads to take, but do what he might, the old man’s sinister look and dark words were before him, and he could only lie awake thinking over them till day broke.
Determined to return to Orta in time to meet the post, he drove to the bank, just as it was open for business, and presented his bill for payment.
“You have to sign your name here,” said a voice he thought he remembered, and, looking up, saw the old man of the play-table.
“Did we not meet last night?” whispered Calvert, in a low voice.
The other shook his head in dissent.
“Yes, I cannot be mistaken; you muttered a prediction in German as you passed me, and I know what it meant.”
Another shake of the head was all his reply.