Through a door to the left
could be seen the poker tables, surrounded by grave or jocular
faces. Above the low buzz of conversation there sounded the
continual droning voices of the croupiers as they called the
winning numbers, and an occasional exclamation from a "customer."
I made my way to the center wheel and stood at the rear of the
crowd surrounding it.
The ball rolled; there was a straining of necks amid an intense
silence; then, as the little pellet wavered and finally came to a
rest in the hole number twenty-four a fervent oath of
disappointment came from some one in front of me.
The next moment, rising on tiptoe to look over the intervening
shoulders, I found myself looking into the white face of my
younger brother Harry.
"Paul!" he exclaimed, turning quickly away.
I pushed my way through and stood at his side. There was no
sound from the group of onlookers; it is not to be wondered at if
they hesitated to offend Paul Lamar.
"My dear boy," said I, "I missed you at dinner. And though this
may occupy your mind, it can scarcely fill your stomach. Haven't
you had enough?"
Harry looked at me. His face was horribly pale and his eyes
bloodshot; they could not meet mine.
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