“Oh, have it in by all means,” Percival Miles said, with his eyes fixed on the table.

And perhaps it was that Lionel was anxious and nervous (for much depended on the results of this night’s play), but he seemed to feel that the pale young man who sat opposite him appeared to be even more cold and implacable in manner than was usual with him.  He began to have superstitious fears—­like most gamblers.  That was an uncanny suggestion his recent companion had put into his head—­that here was an avenger—­a deputed instrument—­an agent to inflict an awarded punishment.  At the same time he tried to laugh at the notion.  Punishment—­from this stripling of a boy!  It was a ludicrous idea, to be sure.  When Lionel had in former days accepted his challenge to fight, it was with some kind of impatient resolve to teach him a wholesome lesson and brush him aside.  And he had regarded his running after Miss Burgoyne with a sort of good-natured toleration and contempt; there were always those young fools in the wake of actresses.  But that he, Lionel, should be afraid of this young idiot?  What was there to be afraid of?  He was no swashbuckler—­this pallid youth with the thin lips, who concentrated all his attention on the cards, and had no word or jest for his neighbors.  How could there be anything baleful in the expression of eyes that were curiously expressionless?  It was a pretty face (Lionel had at one time thought), but now it seemed capable of a good deal of relentless determination.  Lionel had heard of people shivering when brought into contact with the repellent atmosphere that appeared to surround a particular person; but what was there deadly about this young man?

The game at first was not very exciting, though now and again the joker played a merry trick, appearing in some unexpected place, and laying many a good hand low.  Indeed, it almost seemed as if Lionel had resolved to recoup himself by steady play; and so far there had been no duel between him and young Miles.  That was not distant, however.  On this occasion Lionel, who was seated on the left of the dealer—­in other words, he being age—­when the cards were dealt found himself with two pairs in his hand, aces and queens.  It was a pretty show.  When the time came for him to declare his intention, he said,

“Well, I’m just going to make this another ten shillings to come in.”

That frightened no one; they all came in; what caused them to halt and reflect was that, on Lionel being subsequently asked how many cards he wished to have, he said,

“None, thank you.”

Not a syllable was uttered; there were surmises too occult for words.  The player on Lionel’s left bet an humble two shillings.  The next player simply came in.  So did the third—­who was Mr. Percival Miles.  Likewise the dealer; in fact, they were all prepared to pay that modest sum to inspect the age’s hand.  But Lionel wanted a higher price for that privilege.