The girl rose. "Come on, then," she cried. "Fate's going to be kind to us, Dick. I feel it. We're going to win."
The man gazed at her curiously. "Fate, instinct," he muttered to himself, as he rose. "I wish I could feel sure--"
He broke off sharply, and together they left the café.
In the gaming room they found a good sized crowd around the roulette table, and a smaller group gathered at the faro lay-out farther down the room. Gordon bought the little stack of yellow chips, handed them to the girl, and stood beside her, pencil and note-book in hand, jotting down the swiftly recurring numbers as the croupier called them in his even, expressionless tones.
A half hour passed. Once the croupier, glancing at Gordon and noticing his occupation, smiled very faintly. There was no law or rule against the use of paper and pencil at Bradfield's; rather inventors of charts and systems were gladly made welcome. Their money, as Bradfield had once with some dryness observed, was just as good as anybody else's.
At last Gordon turned quickly to the girl. "They haven't run very even," he said hurriedly. "Here's your choice. These numbers here."
The girl glanced hastily at the ten numbers out of the thirty-eight left blank, and instantly made her decision. "Thirty-five, Dick," she whispered, and as she spoke she placed five of the counters on the chosen square. Momentarily heads were turned in her direction, and then the wheel was started once again. Bradfield's croupier wasted no time. "Do them now," might have been his motto. Even as Gordon leaned forward to get a better view, the ball stopped abruptly. "Seven," called the croupier, and Gordon smiled ironically at the folly of the whole proceeding. Once more the girl placed her bet on the thirty-five, once more the ball revolved, slackened its speed as the wheel spun more slowly, and stopped--in the single zero. Gordon turned to his companion with a laugh. "How about your presentiment?" he queried.
The girl shrugged her shoulders. "Oh, we've a chance still," she answered, "and I rather think this is the time we win."
Down went the last five chips on the thirty-five. "Bets are closed," cried the croupier, and the little ball spun merrily away again on its accustomed journey. Gordon's eyes were fixed eagerly upon its progress--now slower and slower spun the wheel, more and more gently the little ball moderated its pace, hesitated, paused on the lip of nineteen, hung there, balanced, and then, as if with the faintest possible remaining effort, rolled on, and dropped--