Renwood, who owned a fine racing-stable, brought up the subject which had interested us during the mail hour that morning: the losses which Cranford had suffered in an exclusive gambling house in New York City.
"Thirty thousand is a fat lump to lose this side of the Atlantic," Renwood observed.
"Not beyond the Rockies," added Collingwood, who had done some fancy mining in Nevada. "I saw Judge Blank lose seventy-five thousand at faro one night in Carson City."
"What did Cranford play,—roulette or faro?" I asked.
"The papers say roulette," replied Renwood. "It's a bad game. There is some chance at faro, if the game is square. But roulette; bah! It is plain robbery."
"The blind Madonna of the Pagan, as Stevenson called chance," mused the colonel, lighting a cigar. "I often wonder if gambling is not as much a particle of our blood as salt. Perhaps you have all wondered why I never have kept a racing-stable, why I play bridge and poker for fun. I remember—"
Chairs moving noisily in the colonel's direction interrupted him. I doubled up my knife and carried my Scotch to his end of the table.
"If it's a story, Colonel," said Old Fletcher, navy, retired, "let's have it."