“Stampa! Who is Stampa?”
There was a sudden rasp of iron in his voice. As a rule Bower spoke with a cultivated languor that almost veiled the staccato accents of the man of affairs. Helen was so surprised by this unwarranted clang of anger that she looked at him with wide open eyes.
“He is the driver I told you of, the man who took the wheel off my carriage during the journey from St. Moritz,” she explained.
“Oh, of course. How stupid of me to forget! But, by the way, did you mention his name?”
“No, I think not. Someone interrupted me. Mr. Dunston came and spoke to you——”
He laughed gayly and drew in deep breaths of the keen air. He was carrying his ice ax over his left shoulder. With his right hand he brushed away a disturbing thought. “By Jove! yes! Dunston dragged me off to open a bank at baccarat, and you will be glad to hear that I won five hundred pounds.”
“I am glad you won; but who lost so much money?”
“Dunston dropped the greater part of it. Your American friend, Mr. Spencer, was rather inclined to brag of his prowess in that direction, it appears. He even went so far as to announce his willingness to play for four figures; but he backed out of it.”
“Do you mean that Mr. Spencer wanted to stake a thousand pounds on a single game at cards?”
“Evidently he did not want to do it, but he talked about it.”