strolled in to watch the play. Almost the first person my eyes rested on was John. His back was turned to us, but my acquaintance had recognised him also and said to me:
"There is your patron, M. Clamart. You will have to sell a good many cars to pay for his game of last night."
"Really?" I answered carelessly. "Was it as bad as that?"
"I heard that his losses were about forty thousand francs," said he.
I shrugged. "M. Cuttynge told me that he had been unlucky," I said; "but he spoke of his losses as trifling."
"I myself saw him lose thirty thousand," says my friend; "but these Americans and Russians do not think much of a sum like that. Kharkoff was the heavy winner. He won over eighty thousand francs."
"Do you think that he will play to-night?" I asked.
"It is probable. They told me to-day in his garage on the Rue Guyot, that he was off for London to-morrow in his car."
"Alone?" I asked.
"Probably 'la femme du dlable' will go with him. But since Kharkoff is going to London to-morrow, to-night will be his last chance to play, and he will probably play high. It will be interesting to watch."
I assented, and we turned our attention to the game. But my mind was not on the table. I was thinking of John and his loss of the night before; a loss that he could ill afford, as we needed
