“He has gone home, indeed——into the other world,” said he, shaking his head.
“What do you mean, Count? For Heaven's sake, speak intelligibly.”
“I mean as I do say, Madame. He play a game as would ruin Rothschild; always change, and always at de wrong time, and never know when to make his 'paroli.' Ah, dat is de gran' secret of all play; when you know when to make your 'paroli' you win de whole world! Well, he is gone now; poor man, he cannot play no more!”
“Martha—Scroope, do go—learn something—see what has happened.”
“Oh, here's the Colonel. Colonel Haggerstone, what is this dreadful news I hear?”
“Your accomplished friend has taken French leave of you, Madame, and was in such a hurry to go that he wouldn't wait for another turn of the cards.”
“He ain't d-d-dead?” screamed Purvis.
“I'm very much afraid they insist on burying him tomorrow or next day, under that impression, sir,” said Haggerstone.
“What a terrible event!—how dreadful!” said Martha, feelingly; “and his poor daughter, who loved him so ardently!”
“That must be thought of,” interrupted Mrs. Ricketts, at once roused to activity by thoughts of self-interest. “Scroope, order the carriage at once. I must break it to her myself. Have you any particulars for me, Colonel?”