“I’m not a great hand at arithmetic,” said Timothy, “will you tell me how many pounds twenty-seven and a half maximums make?”
It was a remarkable situation. Somebody should have laughed, but they were all too serious, the girl as serious as Timothy, and the young Englishman scrawling calculations on a loose page of his notebook.
“Thirty-five francs to a pound,” he said, “makes £340 a coup. Twenty-seven and a half is about——”
“Thank you!” said Timothy, and he gripped the other’s hand and wrung it. “Thank you, fairy godmother—I don’t know your other name.”
They stood together watching his lanky figure, as he, wholly unconscious of the providential part he had played, moved down to the roulette table, eyeing the game with the air of superiority which every player of trente et quarante has for a game with a paltry maximum of six thousand francs.
“Timothy,” whispered the girl, “isn’t it wonderful?”
He put the money into his pocket and it bulged untidily.
“What are you going to do with it?” she asked.
“Give it to the poor,” said Timothy, taking her arm.
“To the poor?”