The official who sat above the man who turned the wheel smiled down at the newcomer. It was a slack time. The table was half deserted, the rush of the diners had not yet begun.
Basil took out his cypher card and placed it carefully behind a little rampart of gold coins.
The croupier spun, and before the "Rien ne va plus" was uttered Basil had shoved his usual maximum of nine louis upon number 3—sitting as he did close to the wheel which divided the two long tables.
Twenty-eight turned up. Basil saw his money raked away, with the few other stakes that were adventured, with a broad smile.
No one could possibly have noticed the quick glance he gave at his watch. But that glance signified to him that for the next five minutes number "11" would be certain to win.
He put the maximum upon number 11.
He glanced again at his watch, as the croupiers began to croak their "Faites vos jeux" and gazed moodily round the table, which was now beginning to fill up. At that moment—a supreme moment to him—he was conscious of no particular emotion at all.
When asked about it afterwards by a certain intimate friend he always said, "Really, I felt nothing whatever."
The weary yellow-faced slave of the wheel did his duties.
All the money upon the table, at that moment, was upon even chances, upon the dozens, the transversales, or the columns. No single person had played direct upon a number—a thirty-five to one chance.