At last Frank threw down his final half-crown. It went like the others. He started up, and hurried away, without saying good-bye; indeed, giving no other expression of his feelings than was convoyed in an energetic denunciation of his whiskers.
Cecil played on; and as he saw the sovereigns disappear in spite of his famous martingale, his heart sank within him, and the gloom of despair seemed to paralyse his mind. Suffering horrible agony from the intense excitement of each coup, he yet played mechanically, almost listlessly, he lost, and won, and lost again, with fearful alternation of sick despair and dull joy. It was as if he were staking his heart's blood on each turn.
Frank returned, not without a certain hilarity in his manner.
"Where have you been?" Cecil faintly inquired.
"To my worthy host of the Coach and Horses, at whose house my dinner is commanded. It struck me that I could very well dispense with wine to-day—the more so as it costs six shillings a bottle, and here one gets it for nothing—so I negociated with the worthy publican, and sold him the wine back again for two half-crowns. Here they are. What d'ye think of that? Is that management of financial difficulties, eh?"
A sickly smile was the only answer Cecil gave, for at that moment he had just lost his fourth coup running. The two half-crowns seemed to bring back Frank's luck, for he won rapidly; Cecil, who played the same colours, also won. Winning and losing, and losing and winning, so the game went on, with alternate rising and falling of hopes, and in the rapidity with which small gains mounted up to large sums, and those sums dwindled down again, crowding as much excitement as would have filled a month of ordinary life.
"Done! cleaned out!" exclaimed Frank, as he saw himself once more penniless.
A sharp pang shot across Cecil's face, as he threw down his last sovereign on the red.
"Après," said the dealer.
Cecil had now only ten shillings remaining of the fifty pounds. In breath-suspended agony he watched the cards.