“But, monsieur,” whispered the lady, who was French, and gave slight heed to convention, “certainly you will follow your luck!”
“Why not?” he answered.
Knowing that the maximum on a number was nine louis, he was on the point of leaving that amount on 29, when he remembered that Evelyn’s age was twenty. To the surprise of his self–appointed counselor, he told the croupier to transfer the gold to the new number, while the note went on the 19–24 transversale. Thus, if he lost, he was still a louis to the good, and the American’s consoling adage was robbed of its sting.
The roulette whirred round, the marble danced madly across diamonds and slots. Checking its pace, it hopped, hopped, hopped—into 20—and the Frenchwoman nearly became hysterical. Warden received so much money that he lost count. As a matter of fact, he had won just forty louis less than the cynic of the baccarat table. He deemed the example of the unknown philosopher too good not to be followed, so he gathered his gains and stakes, and left the room.
Now, most men would have felt elated at this stroke of luck, but Warden was not. Though it was very pleasant to be richer by nearly three hundred and seventy pounds, he wished heartily that this sudden outburst of the gambling mania had found its genesis in some other topic than the reputed ill fortune of a favored lover. The incident was so astounding that he began to search for its portent. For a few seconds, he saw in his mind’s eye an evil leer on the black face hidden away in the Nancy’s cabin, and it almost gave him a shock when he recalled the fact that both 29 and 20 were black numbers. But the light and gaiety of the streets soon dispelled these vapors, and he loitered in front of a jeweler’s shop while planning a surprise for his beloved. He had not yet given her a ring. Their tacit engagement was so sudden, and their parting so complete since that never–to–be–forgotten night at Plymouth, that he now fancied, with a certain humorous dismay, that Evelyn might long have been anticipating the receipt of some such token. Well, she should own a ring that he could never have afforded but for the kindly help of the Casino. There was one in the window marked “D’Occasion—5,000 frs.” It contained three diamonds fit for a queen’s diadem. He wondered whether or not, under the circumstances, one should buy a second–hand ring. Would Evelyn care to wear an article, however valuable, that had once belonged to another woman? At any rate, the stones would require re–setting, and he was not afraid of being swindled in the purchase, because the jeweler evidently regarded this special bargain as a magnet to draw the eyes of passers–by to his stock.
Five minutes later, the ring reposed in a case in Warden’s pocket, and he was making for the post–office. But there was no letter from Evelyn. There would have been, were it not locked in Mrs. Laing’s writing–case, and Warden was no wizard that he should guess any such development in the bewildering tumult of events that was even then gathering around him. Nevertheless, the clerk gave him a letter—from the Colonial Office—asking that he should come to London with the least possible delay.
Though gratifying to a man eager for recognition in his service, the incidence of the request was annoying. At any other time in his career he would have left Ostend by the night mail. Now he resolved to wait until the morrow’s midday service, and thus secure Evelyn’s missive before his departure. He read between the lines of the brief official message clearly enough. Affairs were growing critical in West Africa. At best, his advice, at worst, his immediate return to duty, was demanded. If the latter, by hook or by crook he would contrive to see Evelyn before he sailed for the south.
He telegraphed his change of plans to Evelyn, telling her to write to his flat in London, and asking her to wire saying whether or not a letter was en route to Ostend. He bade Peter bring the Nancy to Dover and there await orders, and then joined his friend, who was sympathetic when he heard that Warden must leave Ostend next day.
“You’ll miss the racing,” he said, “and that is a pity, because I know of one or two good things that would have paid for your holiday.”