"Do whatever you like," Mrs. McMahon answered quickly. "I mustn't influence you or it will spoil the luck."
Ethel hesitated, and as she did so the croupier swung the capstan and spun the ball.
A low, humming whirr broke the silence.
"Quick! quick!" whispered Mrs. McMahon, "make your stake or it will be too late."
Hardly knowing what she did, Ethel pushed her three louis on to the green cloth, and as she did so the ball began to rattle on the diamond-shaped pieces of silver at the side of the bowl, and the croupier called out sharply, "Rien ne va plus," announcing that no more stakes could be put upon the table.
Ethel had pushed her three golden louis exactly upon the edge of the line which divided six numbers, from 13 to 18, unconsciously played what is called a transversale simple.
If any of these six numbers turned up she would win five times her original stake. And now—it all passed in a few seconds—the ball was rattling among the compartments, clicking like a pair of castanets. There was a final click as it fell into the slot, the croupier put out his finger and stopped the capstan, announcing the number—"Rouge—dix-huit!"
Red had turned up, but with that Ethel had no concern as she had not backed the colour, but 18 had won, though for a moment she did not realise it.
Then followed what to her was an extraordinary scene. The long rakes of the croupiers shot out from every part of the table, threading their way in and out among the masses of gold, silver and bank notes with extraordinary rapidity and the most delicate manipulation.