unwonted a benefactor. Nor did Mr. Greyfaunt
preserve a long or a lively remembrance of his
benefactor. "I'm not going to back the old
rascal's luck," he said, candidly, to himself.
"He'll lose his head presently, and be cleaned
out." So, as soon as he conveniently could, the
grateful Mr. Greyfaunt slipped away with his five
louis, and wandered away to the trente-et-
quarante-table.

At three o'clock that afternoon the broken
bankrupt, Francis Blunt, had won fifty thousand
francs.

"I'll be a gentleman again," he chuckled to
himself. "I wonder where that rascal Constant
is. He'd be glad to shave and dress me again if
I paid him the money I owed him. I'll find out
my daughter and make a lady of her. I've got
fifty thousand francs. That's two thousand
pounds. By G—I'll break the bank before I've
done with them."

He had been playing without any intermission,
save his brief converse with Greyfaunt,
since eleven o'clock. After four hours' gaming
he felt faint. Stuffing his winnings, which, as
his stakes had grown larger, had been gradually
converted into notes, into his pocket, he went
out to the restaurant attached to the establishment.
He swallowed some soup and ate a cutlet,
ordered a bottle of champagne, and drank the
whole of it; then ordered a decanter of brandy,
and drank the better part of that, too. The
meat and drink warmed the cockles of his old
heart, and made him feel braver in his rapacious
intent. "I shall win a hundred thousand before
eleven o'clock," he muttered. "A hundred, bah!
Two hundred thousand. My hand's in. My luck's
hot. I wish it was the bones, though, instead of
that child's play of roulette."

Toadies suddenly started up around him.
Dilapidated raffs, almost as greasy and as ragged as
himself, but who that very morning had avoided
his company as though it had been contagious,
came and claimed acquaintance with him. They
clapped him on the back, and congratulated
him. He grinned, and bade them the rather
congratulate the luck, since to that alone he
was indebted for their society. But he was
in a bounteous mood, and treated them
plenteously. They would have borrowed money of
him, but he had done enough in the way of
pecuniary generosity. "As much brandy as you
like," he said, "but not a centime."

He rose at about five, remarking that he
would have another turn at the tables. He was,
that afternoon, the lion of Frascati's, and a crowd
followed him with eager eyes. He felt his head
swimming and his legs trembling under him. He
called for some soda-water, but there was none;
there was only some insipid eau de Seltz, of which
he took a draught, with some brandy. Then, evading
his admirers for a moment, he slipped aside
into a side-room, where the innocent games of
chess and draughts—for Frascati's liked to keep
up appearances—were supposed to be played,
and which was consequently always empty. He
drew a card-table to the door, knowing that at
least he should have fair warning if attempts
were made to open it, and, sitting down,
proceeded to pull off one of his boots. It was the
fellow to the boot which had the hole in it
disclosing the inked stocking. He flattened a
thousand franc note down into the toe, and put
on the boot again, and rose up with a leer.

"If the worst come to the worst," he thought,
"we have this to fall back upon."

By seven o'clock he had won in all a hundred
and fifty thousand francs, but he had made at
least half a dozen dives into the restaurant
and drunk more brandy. More than once the
croupier had to remind him that he had left a
bank note, unclaimed, on the table. He let
money drop and refused to pick it up. He flung
about his money recklessly; now on one stake,
now on the other. But he kept on winning,
winning, winning. He was drunk.

The largest stake allowed at Frascati's was
twenty-five thousand francs—a thousand pounds.
He put down this sum in twenty-five notes of a
thousand on the red. Black turned up, and his
twenty-five thousand francs were swept away.

He gave a tipsy yell, and said that he didn't
care, and put down twenty-five thousand more,
on the same colour. Again black turned up, and
he had lost fifty thousand francs.

"He has lost his head," whispered the clean-
looking old gentleman.

"It is the beginning of the end," the military
personage said.

Half an hour afterwards, of all his winnings,
Blunt had just one thousand francs left. The
crowd were as absorbed in interest to see him
lose, as they had been during the afternoon to see
him win. The press around him was enormous.
Some mounted on the benches at the back of the
saloon to have a better view. He was still the
lion of Frascati's, but a lion in the toils, a lion
encompassed by the hunters, a lion at bay.

To his drunken memory it suddenly occurred
that all his winnings had been made by betting
on the numbers. But a long period had elapsed
since he had abandoned his faithful thirty-three.
He cast his last thousand franc note to a croupier,
and told him to put it on "thirty-three."

"En plein ou à cheval—in full or on
horseback?" asked the croupier.

"In full; may as well be hung for a sheep as
for a lamb," stuttered Blunt, now very far gone.

The gallery were amazed at the desperation
of the stake, for he admitted it to be his last.
One friendly voice was raised to warn him against
his peril.

"Put on five hundred! Cry out five hundred à
la masse!" urged the voice, which belonged to a
poor broken-down captain of the Grande Armée.

"Won't," mumbled Blunt. "Let it come up
as it likes."

"At least put a louis, in case of accident, on
zero. Zero hasn't been up for ninety rounds."

"Haven't got a louis left."

"Well, here is one," said the poor broken-