Hull continued playing, though his pocketbook grew lighter and lighter. “What is the matter with me?” he continually asked himself. He wanted to rise from the table and miss a round, so that he could get a mouthful of fresh air at the window and gain a little calm from looking into the silent night. But he sat as if glued to his chair, pressing his elbows down on the crimson cloth, and his thoughts escaped his control, falling into a void like that of deep slumber.
And yet he was not really a reckless player. He was accustomed to reflect and to follow the run of luck, making use of chances that were favourable to him, and reducing his stakes when he saw that the odds were against him.
This evening, however, he seemed to know no bounds. No amount seemed of any value in his eyes, and it appeared as if he were almost glad to lose, and saw his notes change hands with a kind of satisfaction. Something would be sure to happen ere long. The players seemed far too slow in dealing, he thought; they took an endless time in declaring their stakes, and the notes crawled round the table at a snail’s pace.
He drank freely, moreover, and the fancies which he could no longer control were like fiery steeds escaping the driver’s restraining hand and running away into a trackless wilderness. The very air seemed to have been exhausted, and nothing existed for him but the game.
Folks began to discuss his bad luck. He certainly drew unlucky cards, but he was playing his hand badly, and taking unreasonable risks. His friends wanted to restrict the stakes and talk of the final round. At first Hull did not take in what they were saying, and they had to explain their words; then he drew himself up and became furiously angry, shouting in his wrath and beating his fist on the table.
Then the stranger’s big eyes seemed to withdraw a little from him and the rest; their glance appeared to be directed inward and some of their lustre vanished. He laid down his cards and put his money into his pocket, doing it carelessly, however, as if it were merely a handkerchief. There was one more round to finish. Hull called out, “I’ll play the bank,” and the stranger dealt him the cards. He glanced at them quickly. His total was twenty-one. … Then something happened, something strange and inexplicable. He threw his cards face downwards upon the heap, saying, “I have lost again.”
The guest immediately showed his cards. His eyes regained their glitter, he counted his points, named the total, and threw his cards down on the table.
It seemed to Hull as if he were falling from an unsteady foothold down into an abyss below. “What have I been doing?” he asked himself in stupefaction and despair. Now at last he began to see everything as clearly as if he had just come into the room: the three glowing electric globes under their protecting dome, the red-covered, lighted table, his friends, the elderly stranger, the scattered cards and the piles of notes.
“Where have I been? What have I been doing?” he stammered.
His brain grew alert again, and the thoughts that had been so confused and obscure now became suddenly clear: it was as if he had drawn aside the curtains and let in the light of day. Then he felt a sudden distrust of himself, which made him uneasy. He held his head in his hands awhile, striving to free it from the weight that seemed to encircle it, and then raising himself erect, he said, “What have I been doing? I held twenty-one in my hand, and then someone called out, in my voice, ‘I have lost again.’ Look there!” He snatched the cards he had thrown away from the heap where they lay, and turned them over. They were an ace, a ten, and a knave—twenty-one!
The elderly stranger’s large grey eyes contracted until the pupils were quite small and seemed to be gazing at a far-distant spot. A shudder went through his body; it was perceptible, though hastily subdued. Then his breast expanded and his breath came slowly and with difficulty, as if he were having to pump the air direct into himself.
“Too late!” said he, briefly and decisively.
Hull made a slight gesture.
“My remark had nothing to do with you,” he said quietly; “it concerned myself only. How much do I owe you?” he asked in a friendly tone.
“Thirty thousand marks!”
Hull emptied his pocketbook.
“You must content yourself till tomorrow afternoon with ten thousand and, of course, an I.O.U. for the rest. Will you be so good as to write the amount and your address in this notebook?”
When Hull got his little notebook back, he read in it:
Balling,
Room 15, Excelsior Hotel.
He passed over his I.O.U., smiling pleasantly as he did so.
“I am ready to give you your revenge, Herr von Hull,” said Balling, as he rose. “Gentlemen, may I offer you my thanks for the evening’s hospitality? Good night!”
He said this almost abruptly, but in so decisive a tone that it brought the others to their feet. Karstens offered him his car.
“No, thank you; my own is waiting for me.”
He walked away somewhat stiffly, as though tired out, and vouchsafed no further farewell of any sort. The club attendant conducted him to the outer door.
“Hull, you are off your head,” said Karstens, when the stranger had left the room.
“What did really happen?” asked Hull quietly.
“Ask your purse!”
“My pocketbook is empty. Who won all my money?”
“Your friend there,” said
