"The fact is, Cis, I have discovered the true method of playing. I broke the bank at No. 14, last Saturday; and have won no trifle since. You see all the martingales yet invented have some inherent imperfection. They go smoothly enough in theory; but damn the practice, say I!"
"Is not yours a martingale, then?'
"No: it is simply playing with skill. To explain it in a few words: you know that there are constantly runs upon a colour; sometimes it is the red, sometimes the black. You also know that they dodge about, and that the red will alternately win and lose every successive coup. My plan is to wait quietly while the game is dodging, and directly I see a run, I back in heavily. If the red has turned up three times, the chances are, that there is to be a run on that colour, and I back it till it loses. D'ye understand?'
"Perfectly. But I don't so clearly see how you must win at it."
"Bah—that's the very best proof! In every martingale, don't you on the contrary clearly see how you must win, but does that prevent your losing when you begin to play? So, you may not see how I must win, but I see how I do win—that's enough for me."
They dined together that day, and Frank, who had a box at Drury Lane, proposed that Cecil should accompany him, but Cecil was too unwell, and went home brooding on his friend's prosperity, and playing imaginary games with fantastic success.
All the next day he was moody and irritable. He would not even notice his child, but walked up and down his small room, or sat with his feet on the fender, cowering over the fire, his head buried in his hands.
Towards evening, he wrote to Captain Heath a hypocritical letter, the object of which was, as may be expected, to extract a few pounds from him. He was less moody after sending this off; but Blanche observed a strange wandering in his thoughts.
On the morrow he received a cold, firm answer from the captain, who stated that he had already advanced as much money on the picture as he could afford to pay for it, and that he was therefore forced to refuse.
"Damn him!" Cecil muttered, as he read the letter and crumpled it between his fingers.