The wheel spun. The ball clicked slower and slower. The gaming spirit of the devotees once more claimed them and the veiled lady and her chivalrous escort were forgotten in the interest centered on the little ivory sphere.
Slower and slower and slower it ran, until it settled in place with a last click.
The company drew a mingled long breath. The monotonous sing-song voice of the croupier chanted, "Twenty-six and the black wins," and he raked away the stake from before the veiled lady.
Paul's face never changed, nor did the lady speak. Once more the gold was piled, and once more raked away. The other players, forgetting the strange entrance of the lady's champion, were now absorbed in following his failing fortune.
Again and again Paul lost, until finally the last of the generous pile was swept away. With a truly stoical British smile Paul reached for his cheque book, and glanced about him for some one who possibly could identify him. But the lady rose from the table with a little gasp and steadied herself with her hands on the back of her chair.
At the same moment the door by which Paul had entered opened again, and in there came two gentlemen in evening dress. A third man followed closely behind them, and a flush of irritation crept up the back of Paul's neck as he recognized Schwartzberger.
The room was quite hushed. The men about the table had been awed by the vast sum of money which the mysterious lady had staked and lost.
As she moved a step forward as though to go, they drew aside to give her free passage, so that now she found herself face to face with the men who had just entered.
Looking over her head, Paul saw the pork-packer glance quickly at him, his face a complete study in astonishment. He bowed to the lady, but said nothing. It was Paul who spoke.
"This is most unfortunate," he said.