"Here is a paper signed by him. It is in duplicate, signed and witnessed. He remits you——"
"Mosson remitting? The sun'll tumble out of the sky."
"He remits you the whole, gives you a receipt in full—there it is in black and white—on condition that you bind yourself to play no more, to give up every kind of gaming and betting, and sign to that effect—witnessed by me. So now, Paul, you are a free man. No question of the descent to Avernus, the mercenary marriage, or anything of the sort—always providing you take this pledge."
"Oh, I say!" he muttered thickly, the drops starting on his forehead. "It can't be true—it can't. And the chief?——"
"Will know nothing."
"But Mosson?" he gasped. "Mosson to make me a present of all that? It's unheard of! Besides, it isn't the square thing; he must be paid—you can't rook him, if he's ever such a beast. And it's nothing to him whether I go under or not."
"Mosson is paid to the last centime—that is, he will be if you make this promise."
"Paid by whom?" he asked hoarsely.
"Naturally not by an enemy. By some one who makes it a stipulation that you never know, by some one who has your welfare so much at heart as to be willing to pay a price for it, who wishes you to be absolutely free and unfettered by any obligation—except that of giving up this stupid, ruinous vice."
"The countess!" he whispered, turning cold and sick, as he sank back in the chair he had left, covering his face with his hands.