His last stake was swept away before him, and Dalton, unable to speak, stretched forth his arms across the table to arrest the banker's hand. “A hundred 'Naps,' on the red,” cried he, wildly; “no—two hundred—neck or nothing, I 'll go five—d' ye hear me?—five hundred on the red!”
A short conversation in whispers ensued between the croupiers, after which one of them spoke a few words to Dalton in a low voice.
“You never said so when I was losing,” cried Peter, savagely. “I heard nothing about the rules of the tables then.”
“The stake is above our limit, sir; above the limit laid down by law,” said the chief banker, mildly.
“I don't care for your laws. I lost my money, and I 'll have my revenge.”
“You can make half de stakes in my name, saar,” said a long-moustached and not over-clean-looking personage beside Dalton's chair.
“That will do——thank you,” cried Dalton. “Bet two hundred and fifty for me and I'll stake the rest.”
A moment more, and the low voice of the croupier proclaimed that red had lost!
“What does he say—why won't he speak plainly?” cried Dalton, in a voice of passionate energy.
“You lose de stake,” muttered the man behind him.