pushed the two fateful cards towards the fair young Englishwoman.
Sylvia took up the two cards. She glanced down at them. Yes, L'Ami Fritz had been right. She was in luck to-night! In a low voice she uttered the welcome words—in French, of course—the words "Nine" and "The King," as she put the cards, face upwards, on the green cloth.
And then there came for her and for those who backed her, just as there had done on that first fateful evening at the Casino, an extraordinary run of good fortune.
Again and again the cards were dealt to Sylvia, and again and again she turned up a Nine, a Queen, a King, an Eight. Once more the crowd excitedly followed her luck, staring at her with grateful pleasure, with fascinated interest, as she brought them temporary wealth.
The more she won, the more she made other people win, the more miserable Sylvia felt, and as she saw Count Paul's heap of notes and gold diminishing, she grew unutterably wretched. Eight hundred pounds? What an enormous lot of money to risk in an evening!
Then there came a change. For a few turns of the game luck deserted her, and Sylvia breathed more freely. She glanced up into Count Paul's impassive face. He looked worn and tired, as well he might be after his long journey from Brittany.
Then once more magic fortune came back. It seemed as if only good cards—variations on the fateful eights and nines—could be dealt her.
Suddenly she pushed her chair back and got up. Protesting murmurs rose on every side.
