He had lost everything. He was dazed. The great Hall of Light seemed to be full of dark shadows, and the faces of those around him touched with mockery. He was turning to go when a hand gripped his arm. He beheld at his elbow the contumelious countenance of Mr. Gimp.
“How much d’ye want?” snapped the little man, opening a large pocket-book.
“Nothing. I’ve lost everything. Broke! Couldn’t pay you if I borrowed.”
“How much d’ye want?”
Hugh scarcely knew what he was saying. “I’ve lost two thousand. I’d probably win it back this time if I could go on. It can’t always keep coming even.”
“Here, take this two thousand.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Take it, I say.”
Hugh took the notes and threw them on the impair just as the ball was slackening its spin. “Numero treize, noir, impair et manque.”
He had won at last. He took from the table the four thousand francs, and returned Mr. Gimp his two bills, saying: