"Give them to me—your seven lives?"
The stranger did not answer. Gloom had settled on the face that Lewis had seen only alight. Lewis, too, was silent. His life with Ann and the Reverend Orme had taught him much. He recognized the dwelling-place of sorrow.
Presently the stranger shook his mood from him.
"Come," he said, "let us begin." From one of his bags he took a pack of cards. He sat at the table and shuffled them. "There are many games of patience," he continued. "They are all founded on averages and thousands of combinations, so intricate that the law of recurrence can be determined only by months of figuring. However, one can learn a patience without bothering with the law of recurrence. I shall now teach you a game called Canfield."
Time after time the cards were laid out, played, and reshuffled.
"Now," said the stranger, "do you think you know the game?"
"Yes," said Lewis, "I think so."
He played, with some success.
"You have got out fourteen cards," said the stranger. "You have beaten the game."
"How can that be?" asked Lewis.