She did not stop to think what he meant. She simply obeyed. When the jacket was buttoned the case showed through the cloth. Even in the midst of her tremors she was aware that his eyes kept travelling towards the tell-tale patch. For some odd reason she was glad they did.
They passed from the radiance of the autumn afternoon into the chamber of the "little horses." The change was almost dramatic in its completeness. From this place the sunshine had been for some time excluded. The blinds were drawn. It was garishly lighted. Although the room was large and lofty, owing to the absence of ventilation, the abundance of gas, the crowd of people, the atmosphere was horrible. There was a continual buzz; an unresting clatter. The noise of people in motion; the hum of their voices; the strident tones of the tourneur, as he made his various monotonous announcements; all these assisted in the formation of what, to an unaccustomed ear, was a strange cacophony. She shrank towards Mr. Huhn as if afraid.
"What are they doing?" she asked.
Instead of answering he led her forward to the dais on which the nine little horses were the observed of all observers, where the tourneur stood with his assistant with, in front and on either side of him, the tables about which the players were grouped. At the moment the leaden steeds were whirling round. She watched them, fascinated. People were speaking on their right.
"C'est le huit qui gagne."
"Non; le huit est mort. C'est le six."
Someone said behind her, in English:--
"Jack's all right; one wins. Confound the brute, he's gone right on!"
The horses ceased to move.
"Le numéro cinq!" shouted the tourneur, laying a strong nasal stress upon the numeral.