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you.”
    Mr. Fox opened his eyes. “What’s amiss? You for bed too?”
    “I don’t sit after five,” the Marquis said. “I’m for Newmarket and back again.”
    Lord Cholmondley gaped at him. “God save us all, it’s not the day of your race? Man, you’re crazy to think to drive to Newmarket! Damme, Vidal, you’re drunk. You can’t do it! And here’s me with a cool five hundred backing you!”
    “Be calm, my loved one,” mocked Vidal. “I drive best when I’m drunk.”
    “But up all night—no, blister me, that’s too much. Get to bed, you madman!”
    “What, to, save your stake for you? Be damned if I do! My coach calls for me at five. Does the bet stand? You’ll break my bank before five—your colt to my mare.”
    “I’ll do it!” Cholmondley said, slapping the table with his open hand. “Got an hour, ha’n’t I? Tune enough. Where’s the betting-book?”
    The bet was duly entered. The waiter was about to remove the book when the Marquis drawled: “I’ll lay you a further five hundred I reach Newmarket under the given time, Cholmondley—play or pay.”
    “Done!” said Cholmondley promptly. “Now I’m for you, my boy. Playing two hundred!”
    “Two hundred it is,” the Marquis agreed, and put up his eyeglass to watch the throw of the dice.
    Cholmondley called sixes. Lord Rupert looked solemnly at the dice as they fell on the table. “Deuce ace,” he declared. “Bank can’t win for ever, eh, Vidal?”
    Mr. Quarles, who had been tapping an impatient foot, burst out: “I’d say my Lord Vidal can’t lose!”
    The eyeglass dangled on its black ribbon from between my lord’s fingers. “Would you?” said the Marquis gently, and as though he waited for more.
    “Oh, stand out, Quarles, if you can’t stay the course!” said Cholmondley impatiently.
    It was evident that Mr. Quarles had reached the quarrelsome stage. “I’ll stay the course well enough, sir, but the luck’s too damned uneven for my taste.”
    Mr. Fox took a mirror from his capacious pocket, and studied his reflection in it. With considerable care he straightened his toupet, and flicked a speck of snuff from the lapel of his coat. “Dominic,” he said wearily.
    The Marquis shot him a look.
    “Dominic, how did this place grow to be so devilish vulgar?”
    “Hush, Charles, hush!” said the Marquis. “You interrupt my dear friend. He is about to explain himself.”
    The bluff man, who had as yet taken no part in the swiftly brewing quarrel, leaned over Mr. Bowling’s vacant chair, and plucked at Quarles’s sleeve. “Hold your peace, man. You’re out of tune. Don’t play if you’re shy of the luck, but for God’s sake let’s have an end to this bickering.”
    “I’ll play,” Mr. Quarles said obstinately. “But I say it’s tune another man took the bank!”
    “Lord, man, there’s a bet on! The bank stays with Vidal.”
    “Dominic,” said Mr. Fox plaintively. “Dominic, my dear fellow, I shall have to give up this place, positively I shall have to give it up now the herd has discovered it.”
    My lord was still watching Quarles. “Patience, Charles, Mr. Quarles don’t like to see the bank win. You should sympathize.”
    Quarles started up. “I don’t like the way this game has gone, my lord,” he said loudly, “and if you won’t give up the bank, I say give us fresh dice!”
    His words brought about a sudden uneasy silence. Cholmondley tried to fill the breach, saying quickly: “Lord, you’re too drunk to know what you’re saying, Quarles. Let’s get on with the game.”
    “I think not.” The voice came from the end of the table. The Marquis was leaning forward, his wineglass still to his hand. “So you don’t like the dice, eh?”
    “No, I don’t like them, curse you!” Quarles shouted. “And I don’t like your high-handed ways, my lord. They won’t serve. I’ve sat three nights and seen you win—”
    He got no further; the Marquis was up and had dashed the contents of his glass