Somehow or other, she had fallen into the habit each evening of asking the Wachners to dinner. She did so to-day, but suggested dining at a restaurant.
"Yes, if this time, dear Sylvia, the host is L'Ami Fritz!" said Madame Wachner decidedly. And after a slight demur Sylvia consented.
They dined at the hotel which is just opposite the Casino. After the pleasant meal was over, for it had been pleasant, and the cheerful hostess had taken special pains over the menu, Sylvia weary at the thought of another long, dull evening in the drawing-room of the Villa du Lac, was secretly pleased to hear Madame Wachner exclaim coaxingly:
"And now, I do 'ope, Mr. Chester, that you will come over and spend this evening at the Casino! I know you do not approve of the play that goes on there, but still, believe me, it is the only thing to do at Lacville. Lacville would be a very dull place were it not for the Casino!"
Chester smiled.
"You think me far more particular than I am really," he said, lightly. "I don't in the least mind going to the Casino." Why should he be a spoil-sport? "But I confess I cannot understand the kind of attraction play has for some minds. For instance, I cannot understand the extraordinary fascination it seems to exercise over such an intelligent man as is that Comte de Virieu."
Madame Wachner looked at the speaker significantly.
"Ah!" she said. "The poor Count! 'E is what you call 'confirmed'—a confirmed gambler. And 'e will now be able to play more than ever, for I 'ear a fortune 'as been left to 'im!"
Sylvia was startled. She wondered how the Wachners could have come to know of the Count's legacy. She got up, with a nervous, impatient gesture.
How dull, how long, how intolerable had been the last two days spent by her in the company of Bill Chester, varied by that of talkative Madame Wachner and the silent, dour Ami Fritz!
Her heart felt very sore. During that last hour she and Count Paul had spent together in the garden, she had begged him to stay away—to spend the rest of the summer with his sister. Supposing he took her at her word—supposing he never came back to Lacville at all? Sylvia tried to tell herself that in that case she would be glad, and that she only wanted her friend to do the best, the wisest thing for himself.
Such were her thoughts—her painful thoughts—as she walked across from the restaurant to the entrance of the Casino. Two whole days had gone by since she had been there last, and oh! how long each hour of those days had seemed!
The two oddly-assorted couples passed through into the hall, and so up to the closely-guarded doors of the Club.
The Baccarat Room was very full, fuller than usual, for several parties of merry, rather boisterous young men had come out from Paris to spend the evening.
She heard the words that were now so familiar, solemnly shouted out at the further table: "La Banque est aux enchères. Qui prend la Banque?"
There was a pause, and there fell on Sylvia's ears the murmur of two voices—the voice of the official who represented the Casino authorities, and the deep, low voice which had become so dear to her—which thrilled her heart each time she heard it.
Then Count Paul had come back? He had not followed her advice? And instead of being sorry, as she ought to have been, she was glad—glad! Not glad to know that he was here in the Casino—Sylvia was sorry for that—but glad that he was once more close to her. Till this moment she had scarcely realised how much his mere presence meant to her.
She could not see Paul de Virieu, for there was a crowd—a noisy, chattering crowd of over-dressed men, each with a gaudily-dressed feminine companion—encompassing her on every side.
"Vingt mille francs en Banque! Une fois, deux fois, messieurs?" A pause—then the words repeated. "Vingt mille francs en Banque!"
Monsieur Wachner leant his tall, lean form over Sylvia. She looked up surprised, L'Ami Fritz very seldom spoke to her, or for the matter of that to anyone.
"You must play to-night, Madame!" he said imperiously. "I have a feeling that to-night you will bring us luck, as you did that first time you played."
She looked at him hesitatingly. His words made her remember the friend to whom she so seldom gave a thought nowadays.
"Do you remember how pleased poor Anna was that night?" she whispered.
Monsieur Wachner stared at her, and a look of fear, almost of terror, came over his drawn, hatchet face.
"Do not speak of her," he exclaimed harshly. "It might bring us ill-luck!"
And then Chester broke in, "Sylvia, do play if you want to play!" he cried rather impatiently. It angered him to feel that she would not do in his presence what she would most certainly have done were he not there.
And then Sylvia suddenly made up her mind that she would play. Count Paul was holding the Bank. He was risking—how much was it?—twenty thousand francs. Eight hundred pounds of his legacy? That was madness, absolute madness on his part! Well, she would gamble too! There came across her a curious feeling—one that gave her a certain painful joy—the feeling that they two were one. While he was risking his money, she would try to win his money. Were he in luck to-night, she would be glad to know that it would be her money he would win.
M. Wachner officiously made room for her at the table; and, as she sat down, the Comte de Virieu, looking round, saw who had come there, and he flushed and looked away, straight in front of him.
"A Madame la main," said Monsieur Wachner eagerly indicating Sylvia. And the croupier, with a smile, 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.
"If Madame leaves, the luck will go with her!" she heard one or two people murmur discontentedly.
Chester was looking at her with amused, sarcastic, disapproving eyes.
"Well!" he exclaimed. "I don't wonder you enjoy gambling, Sylvia! Are you often taken this way? How much of that poor fellow's money have you won?"
"Ninety pounds," she answered mechanically.
"Ninety pounds! And have you ever lost as much as that, may I ask, in an evening?" he was still speaking with a good deal of sarcasm in his voice. But still, "money talks," and even against his will Chester was impressed. Ninety pounds represents a very heavy bill of costs in a country solicitor's practice.
Sylvia looked dully into his face.
"No,"