“Yes.”
“Then give me back my revolver.”
Without a word, Bruce handed him the weapon.
Mensmore extracted the cartridges and threw them into a clump of shrubs.
“Come,” he cried; “come with me to the Casino. You will see something. This is not my own luck; it is borrowed. Come, quick!”
They raced off, Bruce himself being more fired with the zest of the thing than he cared to admit. Within the Casino all the tables were now crowded, but Mensmore hurried to that at which he sat during his earlier visit.
“It was here that I played in my dream,” he whispered, “soon after I came to it.”
He edged through the onlookers, closely followed by Bruce. Neither cared for the scowls and injured looks cast at them by the people whom they forced out of the way.
The Italian, the winner of half an hour ago, had come back like a moth to the candle. Now he was getting his wings singed. At last, with a groan, he hastily rose, but as a final effort flung the maximum, six thousand francs, on the black.
The disc whirled and slowly slackened pace, the ball rested in one of the little squares, and the croupier’s monotonous words came: