dwarfed alike in dignity and in physique, strongly resembling an
especially cocky and ragged Airedale being tolerated by a well-groomed
St. Bernard.

Now when Pete had placed a plate of caviare sandwiches between them,
and filled their glasses from a newly opened bottle, he withdrew from
the lounge and closed the door behind him; whether or not at a sign
from Penfield, P. Sybarite was unaware; though as soon as they were
alone and private, he grew unpleasantly sensitive to a drop in the
temperature of the entente cordiale which had thus far obtained
between himself and the gambler. Penfield's eyes promptly lost much of
their genial glow, and simultaneously his face seemed weirdly less
plump and rosy with prosperity and contentment. Notwithstanding this,
with no loss of manner, he lifted a ceremonious glass to the health of
his guest.

"Congratulations!" said he; and drank as a thirsty man drinks.

"May your shadow never grow less!" P. Sybarite returned, putting down
an empty glass.

"That's a perfectly good wish plumb wasted," said Penfield, refilling
both glasses, his features twisted in the wriest of grimaces. "Fact
is--I don't mind telling you--your luck to-night has, I'm afraid,
played the very devil with me. This house won't open up again until I
raise another bank-roll."

"My sympathy," said P. Sybarite, sipping. "I'm really distressed....
And yet," he added thoughtfully, "you had no chance--none whatever."