At the head of the table our host was still smiling and debonair, looking as though he had been drinking nothing stronger than water; and opposite to him de Cartienne was leaning back in his chair with a faint tinge of colour in his olive cheeks and a peculiar glitter in his dark eyes which was anything but pleasant to look upon. Altogether, the appearance of the trio was like a cold douche to me and brought me swiftly back to my former watchfulness. I felt instinctively there was mischief brewing.
“I say, Fothergill, let’s have a hand at cards!” Cecil exclaimed, breaking a momentary silence. “You owe us a revenge, you know! George! didn’t you clean us out last time we played! We’ll clean you out to-night, hanged if we won’t! What shall it be?”
Mr. Fothergill shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly.
“Cards—cards! It’s always cards!” he answered lightly. “Can’t you think of something else to do?”
“Yes; hang cards!” muttered de Cartienne.
“All right, I’m agreeable! But what the mischief else is there to do in this dull hole?” asked Cecil discontentedly.
“Oh, let’s have a chat and a few more glasses of wine!” suggested Mr. Fothergill. “I’m so lucky that I hate to play at cards. I always win.”
“Do you?” remarked Cecil, a little pettishly. “Well, look here, Fothergill! I’ll play you at any game you like to-night and beat you—so there! I challenge you! You owe me a revenge. I want it!”
Mr. Fothergill looked a little bored.
“Of course, if you put it in that way,” he said, “you leave me no alternative. But, mind, I warn you beforehand, Silchester, I’m bound to win! I don’t want to win your money—I had enough last time I was here—but if we play I shall win, whether I care about it or not. I’m in a tremendous vein of luck just now.”