So together we returned to that fatal room and sought out the very table where we had suffered our losses.
"How old are you?" she asked quietly.
"Twenty-nine."
"Play it, play it!" She flushed, and then grew as pale as the ivory ball itself.
"Make your game, gentlemen!" cried the croupier. A phantom grin spread over his face as he saw me. I laid the louis on 29. "The game is made!" The ball whirred toward fortune or ruin.
I shut my eyes, and became conscious of a grip like iron on my arm. It was the girl. Her lips were parted. You could see the whole iris, so widely were her eyes opened. So I stared down at her, at the ringless hand clinging to my arm. I simply would not look at the ball.
"Twenty-nine wins, black and odd!" sang out the croupier. He nodded at me, smiling. The croupier is always gracious to those who win, strange as this may seem.
I made as though to sweep in the winnings, but the pressure on my arm stayed the movement.
"Leave it there, Mr. Chadwick; do not touch it!"