Carew stared at the speaker, unable to gather his meaning, and said never a word.
“Why, my friend, there is your chance of redemption,” said the Vicomte, taking up the box and rattling it gaily, “three is the number of the Graces; three throws for fortune and love; three throws for honour, riches, and reputation. Ah! there is a royal stake, and heaven send me favour.”
“This is but a piece of midsummer fooling; you do not mean this?”
“Truly I am in a sad and serious vein. Your barren acres grow heavy on my back and I would be rid of them.”
“Then have with you,” cried the other eagerly.
But hardly had he spoken than the sound of footsteps was heard on the stone passage, and an importunate knocking upon the door. Carew rose to his feet, pushing back his chair with an oath. The Vicomte did not stir.
“It is best to see your impatient visitor,” he said. “Do not hurry fortune.”
Carew went to the door and threw it open. “Well, sir, what is your errand at this unseasonable hour?” he said, peering out into the darkness which screened the intruder.
“My errand is with Vicomte de Laprade,” said a voice, “and is of the most urgent. I must see him immediately.”
“Ah! that is the true Israelite, Mr. Orme,” said the Vicomte, in his usual nonchalant tone, without turning in his chair. “You are arrived most opportunely. This is the Temple of Fortune and here are her worshippers.”