The iciness in the air seemed now an actual thing. There was, in the
nature of this play, something which no man at that board, hardened
gamesters as they all were, had ever met before. It was indeed as though
Fate were there, with her hand upon the shoulder of a favored son.

"You lose, Mr. Castleton," said Law, calmly, as the cards came again his
way. He swept his winnings from the coin pushed out to him.

"Now we have thee, Mr. Law!" cried Pembroke. "One more turn, and I hope
your very good nerve will leave the stake on the board, for so we'll see
it all come back to the bank, even as the sheep come home at eventide.
Here your lane turns. And 'tis at the last stage, for the next is the
limit of the rules of the game. But you'll not win it."

"Anything you like for a little personal wager," said the other, with no
excitement in his voice.

"Why, then, anything you like yourself, sir," said Pembroke.

"Your little slipper against fifty pounds?" asked John Law.

"Why--yes--," hesitated Pembroke, for the moment feeling a doubt of the
luck that had favored him so long that evening. "I'd rather make it
sovereigns, but since you name the slipper, I even make it so, for I
know there is but one chance in hundreds that you win."

The players leaned over the table as the deal went on. Once, twice,
thrice, the cards went round. A sigh, a groan, a long breath broke from
those who looked at the deal. Neither groan nor sigh came from John Law.
He gazed indifferently at the heap of coin and paper that lay on the