If Sinners Entice Thee

Again he won.

With one elbow resting upon the table he gathered up his winnings with that impassive manner which marks the professional gamester as one apart. Whether he gained or lost Erle Brooker never made sign, except sometimes when he lost more heavily than usual he would perhaps smile a trifle bitterly. Already the furrows were showing in his brow, and his deep-set eyes watched keenly the run of the game as time after time he would hesitate, apparently reflecting, until the ball was already in motion, and then toss his notes into the “manque” or “passe,” the first being the numbers 1 to 18, and the latter 19 to 36, or place them upon the lines of the various numbered squares, whichever he deemed wisest for the composite chances of a “sixain,” a “carré,” a “douzaine,” or a “colonne.” Heedless of all around him, heedless of his old partner at his side, the man who had once shared his losses and his winnings, heedless of the pale delicate girl who was wandering about alone somewhere outside, fearing lest he should lose the whole of the little money they now had, he won and won, and still won.

Sometimes he lost. Twice in succession the bank gained six hundred francs of his winnings; still nothing daunted, he continued, and found that the knowledge he had gained of the game proved true, for he won again and again, although sometimes doubling and even trebling his stake.

The crowd of eager ones around the table now began to wait until he selected the place whereon he should put down his stake, and commenced to follow his play narrowly, playing when he played, and refraining when he held back.

Zertho noticed this and whispered: “Your luck’s changed, old chap. Why not try bigger stakes?”

“I know what I’m about,” the other snapped viciously, pulling towards him a dozen notes from the “passe” opposite. “If you won’t play yourself keep count for me, and see that I get fully paid.”

Zertho well knew that his old partner had now become oblivious to everything. His mouth was hard-set, his eyes gleamed with a fierce excitement he strove to suppress, and great beads of perspiration stood upon his heavily-lined brow. A lady standing behind him, a tourist evidently, reached over his head to stake her modest five-franc piece on the red, whereupon he turned, and muttering something uncomplimentary regarding “those women who ought to play for sous,” withered her with a look.

Somebody had handed Zertho one of the cards printed with parallel columns under the letters “N” and “R,” with a pencil wherewith to keep count. He glanced up, and noticing all eyes directed upon them, suddenly reflected that if any person came up who knew him as Prince Zertho d’Auzac it would scarcely be dignified to be discovered counting the gains and acting as clerk to a professional gamester.

But Brooker wanted money badly, and was winning; therefore he could not disturb him. Both men were gamblers at heart, and the one feared to move just as much as the other, lest the spell should be broken and the luck change.

The good fortune attending the Captain’s play seemed to the onlookers little short of marvellous. With apparent unconcern he flung down his notes, sometimes six or ten twisted carelessly together, and each time there came back towards him upon the point of the croupier’s rake his own notes with a similar number of others.

Suddenly, having thrown four notes upon the “manque,” he rested his hot whirling brow upon his hand. The ball clicked into its little numbered partition, the croupier announced that the number 20 had gained, and he knew he had lost. The excited crowd sitting and standing around the table exchanged smiles and glances, and at that moment the croupiers changed.

Again the game was made, and the man upon whom everyone’s eyes were turned threw five hundred francs upon the simple chance of the red. Black again won.

Once more he threw a similar sum upon the red. A third time black won. He had lost fourteen hundred francs in three spins of the wheel!

It seemed that his luck had suddenly departed. It is often remarked by professional gamesters that luck departs from the fortunate when the croupiers are changed.

But the passion was now full upon him. His face was rigid; his mouth tightly closed. He had spoken no word to Zertho, and had seemed hardly to notice how much his companion had been gathering into his hands, or to take the trouble to glance at the revolving roulette. The croupier’s voice was, for him, sufficient.

Now, each time that the tiny ball dropped into its socket he knew that its click cost him four hundred francs. Time after time he lost, and those who, half-an-hour before, had been carefully following his play and winning heavily thereby, began to forsake him and trust in their own discretion. In eighteen games only twice the red turned up, still with the dogged pertinacity of the gamester he pinned his faith to the colour upon which he had had his run of luck, and continued to stake his notes in the expectation that the black must lose.

“You’re getting reckless,” Zertho whispered. “This isn’t like you, old fellow.”

But his companion turned from him with angry gesture, and flung on his money as before.

At that moment red won. The colour had changed. From Zertho’s hand he took the bundle of notes, still formidable, although his losses had been so heavy, and counted them as quickly and accurately as a bank-teller. There were eighty-three, each for one hundred francs.

For an instant he paused. Already the ball was on its way. His keen eyes, gleaming with an unnatural fire, took in the table at a glance; then withdrawing twenty-three of the notes, he screwed up the remainder into a bundle and tossed it upon the scarlet diamond.

“Good heavens!” Zertho gasped. “Are you mad, Brooker?”

But the Captain paid no heed. His blotchy countenance, a trifle paler, was as impassive as before, although he had staked six thousand francs, the maximum allowed upon the simple chance.

“Rien ne va plus!” cried the croupier once more, and those crowding around the table, witnessing the heavy stake, glanced quickly at the reckless gamester, then craned their necks to watch the tiny ball.

Slowly, very slowly, it lost its impetus. The breathless seconds seemed hours. All were on tiptoe of expectation, the least moved being the man sitting with his chin resting upon his hand, his eyes fixed thoughtfully upon the table before him; the man who had spent whole years of his life amid that terrible whirl of frenzied greed and forlorn hope. Even the croupiers, whose dark, impassive faces and white shirt-fronts had haunted so many of the ruined ones, bent to watch the progress of the ball.

Zertho, in his eagerness, rose from his chair to obtain a better view.

Whirr-r. Click! It fell at last, and scarcely had it touched the number when the croupier’s voice clearly and distinctly announced that the red had gained. Then the crowd breathed once more.

Brooker raised his head in the direction of the croupier, and a slight smile played about the corners of his hard-set mouth. A moment later six notes for a thousand francs each were handed to him at the end of the rake, while Zertho drew in the big bundle of small notes his companion had staked. Brooker had re-won all the winnings he had lost.

He toyed with the bundle of sixty notes which Zertho handed to him until the ball was again set spinning, when, as if with sudden resolution, he tossed them once more upon the same spot.

A silent breathlessness followed, while he remained still motionless, his chin sunk upon his breast. It was a reckless game he was playing, and none knew it better than himself. Yet somehow that afternoon a desperate frenzy had seized him, and having won, he played boldly, with the certain knowledge that the bad luck which had hitherto followed him had at last changed.

Again the disc, revolving in the opposite direction, sent the ball hopping about as it struck it. Once more it fell.

The red again won, and he added six additional notes to the six already in his hand.

“Messieurs, faites vos jeux!”

A third time was the game made, a third time he held in his hand in indecision that bundle of notes, and a third time he tossed them upon the scarlet diamond.

In an instant gold and notes were showered upon them from every hand until they formed a formidable pile. The other players crowding around, seeing his returning run of luck, once more followed his game.

A third time was the ball projected around the edge of the disc, followed eagerly in its course by two hundred eyes; a third time the croupier’s voice was raised in warning that no more money was to be placed upon the table, and a third time the ivory dropped with a sudden click upon the red.

A third time came the six thousand francs handed upon the end of the croupier’s rake.

Brooker, taking the bundle of small notes and thrusting them all together in his pocket, rose at once from the table with a smile at those opposite him, the richer by a thousand pounds.

“Marvellous!” cried Zertho, as they moved away together across the polished floor. “What a run you’ve had! Surely Liane can’t be angry now. Let’s go into the gardens; she’s certain to be awaiting us there.”

And together they went to the cloakroom for their hats; then passed out down the broad carpeted steps into the pretty place, where the shadows were lengthening. The Monégasques and visitors were promenading in the gardens; the orchestra before the crowded Café de Paris, with its striped sun-blinds, was playing an overture of Mascagni’s; and the cool, bright, flower-scented air was refreshing after the heat and excitement of the crowded rooms.

“At last!” Brooker exclaimed, as they descended the steps to seek Liane. “At last my luck has changed!”

Chapter Twelve

Liane’s Secret

When Liane had left the two men she first obtained her sunshade, then, descending the steps, walked slowly beneath the shadows round to the front of the Casino and out upon the beautiful broad terrace, flanked by palms, aloes and flowers, which faced the sea. There were but few promenaders, for the sun was still warm, and most of the people were inside tempting Fortune.

With her white sunshade above her head she leaned upon the stone balustrade, her clear eyes fixed in deep thought upon the wide expanse of blue sky and bluer sea. On the terrace below, where a pigeon-shooting match was in progress, the crack of a gun was heard at intervals, while pacing the gravelled walk near her was one of the Casino attendants with the curious closely-fitting coat and conspicuous broad striped belt of red and blue. The duty of these men is somewhat unique. They watch the loungers narrowly, and if they appear plunged in despair they eject them from the gardens lest they should commit suicide.

The soft breeze from the sea fanned her face refreshingly after the closeness of those crowded rooms, where the sun’s brightness was excluded, and the light of the glorious day subdued. She was annoyed at Zertho’s action in inciting her father by winning the paltry couple of louis, more than at the Captain for his want of self-control. She stood there thinking, a tall lithe figure in white girdled with violet, refined, exquisite, dainty from the gilt ferrule of her sunshade to the tip of her tiny white kid shoe. She reflected what terrible fascination the tables possessed for her father, and was half inclined to forgive him, knowing how irresistible was the temptation to play amid that accumulation of all the caprices, of all the fantasies, of all the eccentricities, of all the idleness, of all the ambitious and all the indiscretions. But Zertho’s contemptuous smile had added to her vexation and displeasure.

Her father had commenced playing, and she dreaded the consequences, knowing with what dogged persistency he would stake his last louis on the chance of regaining his losses, heedless of the fact that for each coin lost they would be deprived of the comforts of life to that amount. She reproached herself for consenting to accompany them, but as she pondered her anger soon turned to poignant sorrow. She had believed that her father, hard hit as he had been, had relinquished all thought of play. Time after time he had assured her that he had renounced roulette for ever, yet now on the first occasion he had revisited the scene of his old triumphs and defeats, all his good resolutions had crumbled away, and he had tossed his money into the insatiable maw of the bank as recklessly as he had ever done. She sighed as she thought of it, and bitter tears dimmed her vision. By her own influence she could have taken him away; it was, she knew, the fear of Zertho’s derision that caused him to fling those notes so defiantly upon the table.

With that picturesque, well-remembered landscape of rugged mountain heights, olive-clad slopes, and calm sea, memories sad and bitter continued to crowd upon her. This place, among the fairest on earth, was to her the most hateful and loathsome. With it were associated all the evil days which had passed so drearily; all the poverty which had kept her and her dead companion shabby and heavy-hearted; all the months of anxiety and weariness in days when their rooms were poorly furnished and the next meal had been an event of uncertainty. A few months of life at a good hotel, amid congenial society, would always be followed by many months of residence high up in some back street, where the noise was eternal, where the screaming of loud-voiced Frenchwomen sounded above and below, where clothes were hung upon the drab jalousies to air in the sun, and where the smell of garlic came in at the windows. In such a life the quiet English homeliness of Stratfield Mortimer had come as a welcome rest. She had loved their quaint old ivied cottage, and had fondly believed they would remain there always, happy and contented. But, alas! Nelly’s tragic end had changed it all.

Zertho, her reckless but animated companion of the old days, was back again with them, and once more they were upon the very spot that she had vowed so often she would never again revisit.

These reflections brought with them thoughts of Nelly. She recollected how, often and often, they would stroll together along that terrace while Zertho and her father sat hour after hour at the tables, regardless of meal-times, and how sometimes, hungry and having no money, they would go in and obtain from one or other of the men a ten-franc piece with which to get their dinner at the cheap little restaurant they knew of down in La Condamine. It was upon that very gravelled walk, with its inviting seats, high palms, and banks of flowers, that they had one afternoon passed a tall, good-looking young Englishman not much older than themselves. He had smiled at them, and they, always delighted at the chance of an innocent flirtation, had laughed in return. He had then raised his hat, spoken to them, and strolled along at Nellie’s side. His name was Charles Holroyde, and it was he who, a few weeks later, had given Nelly the costly brooch which had been stolen from her throat by her assassin.

She glanced at the seat beside which she was standing. It was the one on which they had sat that sunny afternoon when they chatted merrily, and he had first given the two girls his card. She sighed. Those days were passed, and even Nelly, her companion and confidante, was no more. She was, she reflected gloomily, without a single real friend.

At that moment, however, she felt a light hand upon her shoulder behind her, and a voice exclaimed, —

“Liane! At last!”

She turned quickly with a start, and next instant found herself face to face with George Stratfield.

“You, George!” she gasped, her face blanching.

“Yes, darling,” he answered. “I called at your address at Nice, but they told me you had come over here, so I followed. But what’s the matter?” he asked, in consternation. “You are not well. How white you look! Tell me what is worrying you?”

“Nothing,” she answered, with a forced laugh. “Nothing whatever, I assure you. I – I wasn’t aware that I looked at all pale. Your sudden appearance startled me.”

But George regarded her with suspicion. He knew from the look of intense anxiety upon her fair countenance that she was concealing the truth.

“Is the Captain with you?” he inquired after an awkward pause.

“Yes, he is inside,” she answered. “But why have you come here?”

“To see you, Liane,” he said, earnestly. “I could no longer bear to be parted from you, so one night I resolved to run out and spend a week or so in Nice, and here I am.”

Her face had assumed a strange, perplexed look. He knew nothing of Zertho’s existence, for loving him so well she had hesitated day by day to write and tell him the hideous truth. She saw that he must now know all.

She raised her clear, wonderful eyes to his as she stammered a question, asking if that was his first visit to the Riviera.

“Yes,” he answered, gazing around at the Casino, the mountains, and the sea. “How charming it is here. I don’t wonder that you are so fond of it.”

“I’m not fond of it?” she protested, with a sigh. “I would rather be in England – much rather.”

“Yet you are half-French yourself! Surely this is gayer and much more pleasant than Stratfield Mortimer,” he exclaimed, leaning with his back to the balustrade, glancing at her elegant dress, and noticing how well it suited her.

“The surroundings are perhaps more picturesque,” she replied, turning her gaze sea-ward. “But I was far happier there than here,” She sighed and the little gloved hand holding her sunshade trembled.

“Why?” he inquired surprised.

For an instant she raised her eyes to his, then lowering her gaze, answered, —

“Why do you ask? Did I not then have you?”

“But I am here now,” he said quickly. “I must, however, admit that your welcome was scarcely as cordial as I expected.”

Her lips tightened, and she swallowed the lump rising in her throat.

“I – I cannot kiss you here, in a public place,” she said, with a little gesture of regret.

The strange coldness about her voice caused him dismay. It proved that the apparent apathy of her letters actually arose from indifference. His suspicions were correct. Her love had grown cold.

A heavy look of disappointment crossed his face, as pausing a moment, he glanced at her, and saw that she shivered.

“Come,” he exclaimed. “You have, I believe, stood here too long. The breeze is perhaps chilly. Let us walk.”

“I’m not cold at all,” she assured him, without moving.

“Except towards me,” he observed, gloomily.

“I wasn’t aware that my attitude was one of indifference,” she said, endeavouring to smile.

“There is a change in you, Liane,” the young man declared, gazing seriously into her eyes. “Tell me, darling, what has occurred.”

She held her breath for a moment. She loved him dearer than life, yet she feared to speak the truth lest he should turn from her and renounce her as an enchantress false and unworthy. Her countenance was almost pale as the dress she wore, and her breast rose and fell convulsively.

“Nothing,” she answered at last. “Nothing has occurred.”

“But you are not bright and happy as you used to be,” he declared sympathetically. “Something troubles you. Confide in me, darling.”

She turned her face from him and tears slowly coursed down her cheeks. But she made no response. Together they walked several times the whole length of the terrace, and their conversation drifted to other topics. He told her of his bachelor life in London, his lonely, dreary chambers, of his desperate struggle to secure a foothold in his already overcrowded profession, and of his good fortune in obtaining a little book-reviewing for a weekly paper.

“Now, what distresses you, Liane?” he asked at last, when again they were standing against the parapet gazing over the sea. “Surely I may know?”

“No,” she murmured. “No, George, you cannot.”

“Do you fear to trust me – the man who loves you?” he asked in a reproachful tone, grasping her hand.

“Ah!” she cried with sudden emotion, “do not make my burden heavier to bear, George. Why have you come here to me – now?”

“Why now? Are you not pleased that I should be beside you when you are unhappy?”

“Yes – I mean no,” she sobbed. “Your presence here only adds to my torture.”

“Torture?” he echoed. “What do you mean, Liane?”

“I must tell you now,” she gasped, clutching his arm convulsively, and raising her tearful face to his with an imploring look. “You will not think me false, cruel and heartless – will you? But I cannot marry you.”

“What!” he ejaculated, starting and regarding her in abject dismay. “Why, what is there to prevent it? Surely you cannot say that you no longer love me?”

“Ah! no,” she answered, panting, her gloved hand still clutching his arm. “I do love you, George. I swear I love you at this moment as no other woman ever can.”

“Yet you cannot marry me?”

“It is impossible.”

“Ah! don’t say that, darling,” he protested. “We love each other too well ever to be parted.”

“But we must part,” she answered, in a blank, despairing voice. “You must no longer think of me, except as one who has loved you, as one who will still think often, very often, of you.”

“Impossible!” he cried quickly. “You told me once that you loved me, that you would wait a year or so if necessary, and that you would marry me.”

“I know! I know!” she wailed, covering her face with her hands. “And I told you the truth.”

“Then you have met someone else whom you love better,” he observed, in a tone of poignant sorrow.

She did not reply. Her heart was too full for words. Her breath came in short, quick gasps, and she laid one hand upon the stone balustrade to steady herself.

“Ah, George,” she murmured brokenly, “you do not know the fatality that of late has encompassed me, or you would not reproach me. You would pity me.”

He saw she was trembling. Her eyes were downcast, her chin had fallen upon her breast.

“I cannot sympathise with you, or advise you, if you will not tell me the cause of your distress,” he said in a kindly tone, grasping her hand.

They were in the eastern end of the garden, at a spot but little frequented.

“I know you must hate me for having deceived you like this, but truly I could not avoid it. Many, many times have I striven to write to you and tell you the truth, but my words looked so cold, formal and cruel on paper that I always tore up the letter. While you were in ignorance I knew that you still loved me, but now – ”

“Well, I am still in ignorance,” he interrupted.

“And I have lost you!” she cried despairingly.

“Why? I still love you.”

“But I must not – I dare not think of love again!” she whispered hoarsely. “From to-day we must part. You must go away and let us both try and forget all that has passed between us. If I have acted cruelly, forgive me. It was because I have been so weak – because I loved you so well.”

“No,” he answered firmly, “I shall not leave you, dearest. I love you still as fondly as in the old days when we strolled together around Stratfield; therefore you shall not send me away like this.”

“But you must go,” she cried. “You must go; I am betrothed.”

“Betrothed?”

The colour died from his face. She hung her head, and her breast rose and fell quickly.

“Ah!” she cried, “do not hate me, George. Do not think that I have been false to you. It is not my fault; I swear it is not. A fate, cruel and terrible has overwhelmed me.”

For a moment he stood rigid as one transfixed.

“What is the man’s name?” he inquired at last, in a hard, strained tone.

She stood silent for several moments, then slowly, without raising her head, answered, —

“Zertho.”

“His surname, I mean,” he demanded.

“Prince Zertho d’Auzac,” she replied, in a low, faltering voice.

He knit his brows. The title was to him sufficient proof that the woman he loved so dearly had forsaken him in order to obtain wealth and position. She would be Princess d’Auzac. It was the way of the world.

“And why have you kept the truth from me?” he demanded, in a harsh tone full of reproach.

“Because I feared you – because – because I loved you, George,” she sobbed.

“Love!” he echoed. “Surely you cannot love me if you can prefer another?”

“Ah! no,” she cried in protestation. “I knew you would misjudge me; you whom I loved so dearly and still love.”