“That’s it,” said the other.
“And do you yourself sometimes visit the gambling-rooms?” the Professor next enquired.
“Oh, hell,” said Taber Tring expressively.
The Professor scrutinized him with growing interest. “And have you a theory of chance?”
The young man met his gaze squarely. “I have; but it can’t be put into language that would pass the censor.”
“Ah—you refer, no doubt, to your personal experience. But, as regards the theory—”
“Well, the theory has let me down to bedrock; and I came down on it devilish hard.” His expression turned from apathy to animation. “I’m stony broke; but if you’d like to lend me a hundred francs to have another try—”
“Oh, no,” said the Professor hastily; “I don’t possess it.” And his doubts began to stir again.
Taber Tring laughed. “Of course you don’t; not for lending purposes. I was only joking; everybody makes that joke here. Well, here’s the house; I’ll go ahead and rout out our hostess.”
They stopped before a pleasant-looking little house at the end of the street. A palmtree, a couple of rose-bushes and a gateway surmounted by the word Arcadie divided it from the pavement; the Professor drew a breath of relief as a stout lady in an orange wig bustled out to receive him.