But Tony’s interest had evaporated. The band’s final burst of enthusiasm heralded the finish of the first part of the programme and the consequent opening of the tables for boule. With a hurried “Come along, quick,” he jumped up and, with Ann beside him, was first in the van of the throng which was hastening into the rooms to play. In a few moments the gaily-lit terrace was practically deserted, and an eager-faced crowd pressed up against the green-clothed tables, each individual eager to secure a good place.
For a little while Ann contented herself with watching.
“Faites vos jeux, messieurs. Messieurs, faites vos jeux.”
The ball spun round, and the croupier’s monotone sounded warningly above the whispering of notes and the clink of coin.
“Le jeu est fait.” It reminded Ann of the vicar intoning at the little church she had attended in the old Lovell Court days. Only there were no responses! Everybody was engrossed in watching the ball as it dodged in and out amongst the numbers, hesitating maddeningly, then starting gaily off on a fresh tack as though guided by some invisible spirit of malice.
“Rien ne va plus!”
Like the crack of doom came the last gabbled utterance, and the croupier’s rake descended sharply on a claw-like hand which was attempting to insinuate a coin on to the cloth “after hours,” so to speak.
“Cinq!” An announcement which, five being the equivalent of the zero in roulette, was followed by the hungry rake’s sweeping everything into the coffers of the bank except the five-franc note which Tony had staked on the number cinq.
He gathered up his winnings, and, turning excitedly to Ann, demanded why she wasn’t playing.
“Follow me,” he told her. “I’m going to win to-night. I feel it in my bones.”