Within the crowded circle the air was hot and fetid with the
breath of men. The sweat trickled down Glenister's brown skin,
dripping from his jaw unnoticed. He arose and ripped off his coat,
while those standing behind shifted and scuffed their feet
impatiently. Besides Roy, there were but three men playing. They
were the ones who had won heaviest at first. Now that luck was
against them they were loath to quit.

Cherry was annoyed by stertorous breathing at her shoulder, and
glanced back to find the little man who had been so excited
earlier in the evening. His mouth was agape, his eyes wide, the
muscles about his lips twitching. He had lost back, long since,
the hundreds he had won and more besides. She searched the figures
walling her about and saw no women. They had been crowded out long
since. It seemed as though the table formed the bottom of a
sloping pit of human faces--eager, tense, staring. It was well she
was here, she thought, else this task might fail. She would help
to blast Glenister, desolate him, humiliate him. Ah, but wouldn't
she!

Roy bet $100 on the "popular" card. On the third turn he lost. He
bet $200 next and lost. He set out a stack of $400 and lost for
the third time. Fortune had turned her face. He ground his teeth
and doubled until the stakes grew enormous, while the dealer dealt
monotonously. The spots flashed and disappeared, taking with them
wager after wager. Glenister became conscious of a raging, red
fury which he had hard shift to master. It was not his money--what
if he did lose? He would stay until he won. He would win. This
luck would not, could not, last--and yet with diabolic persistence
he continued to choose the losing cards. The other men fared