Upon most of the people who thronged the rooms the incident was lost. Of those who saw it many did not understand its meaning, and the rest were too much absorbed in their own affairs to give it any attention. The scene was the Casino at Monte Carlo; every chair was occupied, and behind every chair men and women were standing, all intent upon the play, all consumed by the feverish thirst of winning money born of the atmosphere of the place. The brilliant light flashed in jewels and gleamed in eager eyes, heightened the colour of flushed cheeks and emphasised the pallor of haggard faces; against the black evening coat of one man sitting down was outlined the bare arm of a woman, who laid her stake upon the table, and when the hand was withdrawn it still hesitated over the black coat until the fortune of the stake should be declared. Dominating everything was the monotonous sound of the croupiers' voices and the noise of the money as it was raked to and fro upon the tables.
The incident which took place in this scene was a not uncommon one. It was a little procession of three men, one a dark, good-looking man in well-cut evening dress, who walked nonchalantly through the rooms, pausing almost imperceptibly while his two companions shot a glance of interrogation at each of the croupiers; when the croupiers, in reply, had shot a glance of assent at his companions, the dark man moved on again until he had almost completed his tour of the rooms. It was Melville Ashley undergoing the process of identification as a well-known frequenter of the rooms before receiving the viaticum which should enable him to return to London.
It is the habit of the Englishman to conceal his feelings, and no one could have guessed from Melville's demeanour whether he experienced relief at having come to the end of his tether, regret at knowing that he could play no more that season, mortification at his somewhat humiliating position, or any other emotion which one may suppose natural to a gambler who is suddenly baulked in his pursuits. He seemed entirely unconcerned, perhaps a little bored, but certainly in complete possession of himself. To the few people who, knowing him, found time to vouchsafe him a nod of greeting, he bowed pleasantly enough. Of the existence of the others he appeared unaware, though, in point of fact, his senses were so alert that he could have supplied a remarkably close description of everyone had he been asked to do so. For the time the gambling fever had left him, and with the vanishing of his last coin there awoke in his mind an intense disgust at the heavy scent in the air and the grotesque sight of the many pairs of white gloves. He was only anxious for the great baize doors to swing behind him and exclude him from what was generally the one desire of his heart.
Only once did he betray any interest. A woman leaning back in her chair put out her hand to detain him. She understood the significance of his escort, and there was some commiseration in her eyes.
"Are you going home, Mr. Ashley?" she asked, in a low tone.
"Yes," he answered, with a little smile; "I leave to-night."
In those conventional words was conveyed a perfectly frank confession of the state of his finances. No need to invent any explanation of so sudden a departure. His questioner was well enough acquainted with the language of the place to know that he had pledged his word to return at once to London, in consideration of value received.
"I'm sorry," she said, and looked as if she meant it; "but I daresay I shall be following you soon, and then, perhaps, we may meet again. London is a tiny little place."
"Yes," Melville assented politely; "but wouldn't it be as well if you gave me one of your cards?"
"I haven't any," said Mrs. Sinclair, smiling lightly, for she liked a sportsmanlike loser. "Men always carry cards—in case of duels, I suppose, but women have no room in their purses for anything but money, and nowhere but their purses to put anything else. Give me one of yours, and I will write to you."