Calvert all his winnings. He looked fatigued and
exhausted, and seemed as if dropping asleep
over his game, and yet the noise was deafening
— the clamour of the players, the cries of the
croupier, the clink of glasses, and the clink of
gold!

"Now to test the adage that says when a
man is pelted by all other ill luck, that he'll win
at play," said Calvert, as he threw, without
counting them, several Napoleons on the table.
His venture was successful, and so was another,
and another after it.

"This is yours, sir," said she of the blonde
ringlets, handing him a hundred franc-piece
that had rolled amongst her own.

"Was it not to suggest a partnership that it
went there?" said he, smiling courteously.

"Who knows?" said she, half carelessly, half
invitingly.

"Let us see what our united fortunes will
do. This old man is dozing, and does not care
for the game. Would you favour me with your
place, sir, and take your rest with so much more
comfort on one of those luxurious sofas yonder?"

"No!" said the old man, sternly. "I have
as much right to be here as you."

"The legal right I'm not going to dispute. It
is simply a matter of expediency/'

"Do you mean to stake all that gold, sir?"
interrupted the croupier, addressing Calvert,
who, during this brief discussion, had suffered
his money to remain till it had been doubled
twice over.

"Ay, let it stay there," said he, carelessly.

'"What have you done that makes you so
lucky?" whispered the blonde ringlets, " See,
you have broken the bank!"

"What have I done, do you mean in the way
of wickedness?" said he, laughing, as the
croupiers gathered in a knot to count over the sum
to be paid to him. " Nearly everything. I give
you leave to question me— so far as your
knowledge of the Decalogue goes— what have I not
done?" And so they sauntered down the room,
side by side and sat down on a sofa, chatting
and laughing pleasantly together, till the croupier
came loaded with gold and notes to pay all
Calvert's winnings.

"What was it the old fellow muttered as he
passed?" said Calvert; " he spoke in German,
and I didn't understand him."

"It was something about a line in your
forehead that will bring you bad luck yet."

"I have heard that before," cried he, springing
hastily up. " I wish I could get him to tell
me more;" and he hastened down the stairs
after the old man, but when he gained the street
he missed him; he hurried in vain on this side
and that; no trace of him remained. " If I
were given to the credulous, I'd say that was
the fiend in person," muttered Culvert, as he
slowly turned towards his inn.

He tried in many ways to forget the speech
that troubled him; he counted over his winnings;
they were nigh fourteen thousand francs;
he speculated on all he might do with them;
he plotted and planned a dozen roads to take,
but do what he might, the old man's sinister
look and dark words were before him, and he
could only lie awake thinking over them till day
broke.

Determined to return to Orta in time to
meet the post, he drove to the bank, just as it
was open for business, and presented his bill for
payment.

"You have to sign your name here," said a
voice he thought he remembered, and, looking
up, saw the old man of the play-table.

"Did we not meet last night?" whispered
Calvert, in a low voice.

The other shook his head in dissent.

"Yes, I cannot be mistaken; you muttered a
prediction in German as you passed me, and I
know what it meant."

Another shake of the head was all his reply.

"Come, come, be frank with me; your secret,
if it be one to visit that place, is safe with me.
What leads you to believe I am destined to evil
fortune."

"I know nothing of you! I want to know
nothing," said the old man, rudely, and turned to
his books.

"Well, if your skill in prophecy be not greater
than in politeness, I need not fret about you,"
said Calvert, laughing; and he went his way.

With that superstitious terror that tyrannises
over the minds of incredulous men weighing
heavily on his heart, he drove back to Orta.
All his winnings of the night before could not
erase from his memory the dark words of the
old man's prediction. He tried to forget, and
then he tried to ridicule it. " So easy," thought
he, " for that old withered mummy to cast a
shadow on the path of a fellow full of life, vigour,
and energy, like myself. He has but to stand one
second in my sunshine! It is, besides, the
compensation that age and decrepitude exact for
being no longer available for the triumphs and
pleasures of life." Such were the sort of reasonings
by which he sought to console himself, and
then he set to plan out a future— all the things
that he could, or might, or could not do.

Just as he drove into Orta the post arrived
at the office, and he got out and entered as was
his wont, to obtain his letters before the public
distribution had commenced.

NEW WORK BY MR. DICKENS
In Monthly Parts, uniform with the Original Editions of
"Pickwick," "Copperfield," &c
Now publishing, Part 1., price 1s., of
OUR MUTUAL FRIEND.
BY CHARLES DICKENS.
IN TWENTY MONTHLY PARTS.
With Illustrations by MARCUS STONE.
London: Chapman and Hall, 193, Piccadilly.