But quite instinctively his hand moved out, tenderly embraced the four brown chips, and transferred them to the green area dominated by the black diamond.
"Twelve, black—!"
Forty dollars were represented in that stunted pillar of brown wafers! P. Sybarite experienced an effect of coming to his senses after an abbreviated and, to tell the truth, somewhat nightmarish nap. Aping the manner of one or two other players whom he had observed before this madness possessed him, he thrust the chips out of the charmed circle of chance, and nodded again (with what a seasoned air!) to the croupier.
"Cash or chips?" enquired that functionary.
"Oh—cash, thank you."
The chips gathered into the company of their brethren, two twenty-dollar bills replaced them.
Stuffing these into his pocket, P. Sybarite turned and strolled indifferently toward the door.
"Better leave while your luck holds," Intelligence counselled.
"Right you are," he admitted fairly. "I'll go home now before anybody gets this away from me."
"Sensible of you," Intelligence approved.