'Shouldn't know how to go about it,' replied the other in his deeper
note.

'It seems to me to be the simplest thing in the world if one is content
with moderate profits. I'm going in for it seriously -- cautiously -- as
a matter of business. I've studied the thing -- got it up as I used to
work at something for an exam. And here, you see, I've made five pounds
at a stroke -- five pounds! Suppose I make that every now and then, it's
worth the trouble, you know -- it mounts up. And I shall never stand to
lose much. You see, it's Tripcony's interest that I should make
profits.'

'I'm not quite sure of that.'

'Oh, but it _is_! Let me explain --'

These two had come to know each other under peculiar circumstances a
year ago. Rolfe was at Brussels, staying -- his custom when abroad -- at
a hotel unfrequented by English folk. One evening on his return from the
theatre, he learnt that a young man of his own nationality lay seriously
ill in a room at the top of the house. Harvey, moved by compassion,
visited the unfortunate Englishman, listened to his ravings, and played
the part of Good Samaritan. On recovery, the stranger made full
disclosure of his position. Being at Brussels on a holiday, he had got
into the company of gamblers, and, after winning a large sum (ten
thousand francs, he declared), had lost not only that, but all else.
that he possessed, including his jewellery. He had gambled deliberately;
he wanted money, money, and saw no other way of obtaining it. In the
expansive mood of convalescence, Cecil Morphew left no detail of his
story unrevealed. He was of gentle birth, and had a private income of