As for the pale young man across the table, his demeanor was that of a perfect poker-player.  The only thing that could be noticed was a slight contraction of his pupils, as if he were concentrating his eyes on the things immediately around him and trying to leave his face quite inscrutable.  There was no eagerness in his betting—­nor was there any affected resignation; it was entirely mechanical; like clock-work came the raised and raised bet.

“I call you,” said Lionel, at last, amid a breathless silence.

Without a word Percival Miles laid his cards on the table, arranging them in sequence; they were five, six, seven, eight, and nine of clubs—­not an imposing hand, certainly, but Lionel knew his doom was sealed.  He rose from his chair, with a brief laugh that did not sound very natural.

“I think I know when I’ve had enough,” he said.  “Good-night!” And “Good-night!” came from one and all of them—­though there was an ominous pause until the door was shut behind him.

He went down below, to the supper-room, which was all deserted now; he drew in a chair to a small writing-table and took a sheet of note-paper.  On it he scrawled, with rather a feverish hand: 

“As I understand it, I owe you L800 on this evening, with L300 from yesterday—­L1100 in all.  I will try to let you have it to-morrow.  L.M.”—­and that he put in an envelope, which he addressed to “Percival Miles, Esq.,” and sent up-stairs by one of the servants.  Then he went and got his coat and hat, and left.  It was raining hard, and there was a blustering wind, but he called no hansom; the wet and cold seemed grateful to him, for he was hot and excited.  And then, somewhat blindly, and bare-throated, he passed through the streaming thoroughfares—­caring little how long it took him to reach Piccadilly.

CHAPTER XXIII.

A MEMORABLE DAY.

“...But do you know, dear Maurice, that you propose marrying a beggar; and, more than that, a most unabashed beggar, as you will be saying to yourself presently?  The fact is, immediately after you left this afternoon, the post brought me a letter from Sister Alexandra, who tells me that two of her small children, suffering from hip-disease, must be sent home, for the doctors say they are getting no better, and the beds in the ward are wanted.  They are not fit to be sent home, she writes; then all the country holiday money collected last summer has been spent, and what is she to do?  Well, I have told her to send them on to me, and I shall take my chance of finding the L5 that will be necessary.  The fact is, I happen to know one of the poor little things—­Grace Wilson her name is, the dearest little mite.  But the truth is, dear Maurice, I haven’t a penny? for I have overdrawn the small allowance that comes to me quarterly, and spent it all.  Now don’t be vexed that I ask you, so soon, for a little help;