“As usual,” replied Vernet indifferently, and looking Stanhope steadily in the face. “And you? somehow you look too sober for a man who holds all the winning-cards.”
“I don’t hold all the winning-cards, Van. Indeed, I’m inclined to think that I’ve lost more than I’ve won.”
Vernet continued to regard him steadily and after a moment of silence, he said quietly:
“Look here, Dick, I’m not prepared to say that I quite forgive you for outwitting me—I don’t forgive myself for being beaten—but one good turn deserves another, and you did me a very good turn at the end. You’ve won a great game, but I’m afraid you are going to close it with a blunder.”
“A blunder, Van?”
“Yes, a blunder. You have devoted yourself, heart and soul, to a pretty woman, and you are just the man to fall in love with her.”
“Take care, Van.”
“Oh, I know what I am saying. On the day of our meeting at Warburton Place—the last meeting, I mean, when you figured as Franz Francoise—I saw what you missed. You may think that I was hardly in a state of mind for taking observations, but, in truth, my senses were never more intensely alert than while I stood there dumbly realizing the overthrow of all my plans. And I saw love, unmistakable love, shining upon you from a woman’s eyes.”
“Van, you are mad!”
“Not at all. It’s a natural termination to such an affair. Why, man, you are deservedly a hero in her eyes. Don’t be overmodest, Dick. If you care for this woman, you can win her.”