THE professor advanced with an impressive dignity. Even the two blue-coated attendants who guarded the middle portal stared and gaped. They were used to strange figures, but never had they seen a stranger.
The professor wore a black frock-coat of a bygone day. He carried a brigandish hat in one hand, and a cane with an ebony knob in the other. His silvery hair coiled over his shoulders; his deep, broad beard was patriarchal; he walked with a slow, deliberate step. Every one turned to look at him as he passed.
“It’s Father Christmas,” said a man, and everybody tittered. The name stuck.
But the professor paid no attention to them. He seemed to know just what he wanted to do. He went straight to the table favoured by the system-player, the one next the “Opium Dream Room”, and handed five francs to the sour old lady who takes down the numbers for the Monte Carlo Revue. Promptly she gave him her place.
“Come,” said Hugh to Mr. Gimp, “I know the old chap. He’s queer. Let’s watch him.”
Others too were hastening to watch, and expectancy was in the air. The professor seemed entirely unconscious of the interest he aroused. He carefully installed himself, then took from an inner pocket a long red note-book and a pencil. He asked the old lady to show him her numbers, and copied down the last dozen. Then taking out thirty thousand francs in bills he demanded counters. There was something so elaborately pretentious in these preparations that even the croupiers looked at one another, though they did not lose their contemptuous smiles.
The professor peered through his silver rimmed spectacles at the numbers and sat for awhile, taking down the fresh ones as they occurred, and consulting carefully his long red note-book. Finally he stood up with an air of decision, and put the maximum on thirty-two in every possible way,—en plein, chevals, carrés, transversals, dozens columns, simple chances. When he had finished he had on the table about twenty-five thousand francs. Even the croupiers stared. A thrill of excitement ran through the circle of watchers, but the least moved was the old man. He leaned back and waited with calm confidence for the spin. It came. It was the number thirty-four. He had lost.
Not all, though. It is true he had missed the number, but he had got the three simple chances, the dozen, a transversal double, a carée. He had won about ten thousand francs.
The croupiers shrugged their shoulders. People looked at each other with eyes that said, “Fool’s luck!” The professor again consulted his notes. He seemed a little nonplussed. He allowed three coups to go by without playing, then on the fourth he rose again and built his maximums about the thirty-two.
The croupiers seemed now to realize the dramatic value of the situation. The spinner turned the wheel solemnly as if it were a sacred rite; there was a tense moment, then a thrill ran through the crowd. In a voice that trembled with chagrin the croupier called out: