“It is sure to break the bank in time,” he said confidently, “I am for going to Paris where play runs high, and need not be carried on in this hole and corner fashion to suit cursed Puritanical ideas.”

“Tell me your secret, Walterton,” urged worthy Sir Michael, whose broad Shropshire acres were heavily mortgaged, after the rapine and pillage of civil war.

“Well!  I can but tell you part, my friend,” rejoined the other, “yet ’tis passing simple.  You begin with one golden guinea ... and lose it ... then you put up two and lose again....”

“Passing simple,” assented Sir Michael ironically.

“But after that you put up four guineas.”

“And lose it.”

“Yea! yea! mayhap you lose it ... but then you put up eight guineas ... and win.  Whereupon you are just as you were before.”

And with a somewhat unsteady hand the young man raised a bumper to his lips, whilst eying Sir Michael with the shifty and inquiring eye peculiar to the intoxicated.

“Meseems that if you but abstain from playing altogether,” quoth Sir Michael impatiently, “the result would still be the same....  And suppose you lose the eight guineas, what then?”

“Oh! ’tis vastly simple—­you put up sixteen.”

“But if you lose that?”

“Put up thirty-two....”

“But if you have not thirty-two guineas to put up?” urged Sir Michael, who was obstinate.

“Nay! then, my friend,” said Lord Walterton with a laugh which soon broke into an ominous hiccough, “ye must not in that case play upon my system.”

“Well said, my lord,” here interposed Endicott, who had most moderately partaken of a cup of hypocras, and whose eye and hand were as steady as heretofore.  “Well said, pardi! ...  My old friend the Marquis of Swarthmore used oft to say in the good old days of Goring’s Club, that ’twas better to lose on a system, than to play on no system at all.”

“A smart cavalier, old Swarthmore,” assented Sir Michael gruffly, “and nathless, a true friend to you, Endicott,” he added significantly.

“Another deal, Master Endicott,” said Segrave, who for the last quarter of an hour had vainly tried to engage the bank-holder’s attention.

Nor was Lord Walterton averse to this.  The more the wine got into his head, the more unsteady his hand became, the more strong was his desire to woo the goddess whose broken-nosed image seemed to be luring him to fortune.

“You are right, Master Segrave,” he said thickly, “we are wasting valuable time.  Who knows but what old Noll’s police-patrol is lurking in this cutthroat alley? ...  Endicott, take the bank again....  I’ll swear I’ll ruin ye ere the moon—­which I do not see—­disappears down the horizon.  Sir Michael, try my system....  Overbury, art a laggard? ...  Let us laugh and be merry—­to-morrow is the Jewish Sabbath—­and after that Puritanic Sunday ... after which mayhap, we’ll all go to hell, driven thither by my Lord Protector.  Wench, another bumper ... canary, sack or muscadel ... no thin Rhenish wine shall e’er defile this throat!  Gentlemen, take your places....  Mistress Endicott, can none of these wenches discourse sweet music whilst we do homage to the goddess of Fortune? ...  To the tables ... to the tables, gentlemen ... here’s to King Charles, whom may God protect ... and all in defiance of my Lord Protector!”