"No, thanks," he answered, listlessly looking on at the cards.

"A cigarette, then?"

"No, thanks. I think I must give up smoking altogether--my throat isn't quite right."

But an extraordinary stroke of good-luck aroused him. On looking at his cards he found he had been dealt four aces and a ten. Surely the hour of his revenge had sounded at last; for with such a hand he could easily frighten the others out, while he knew that Percival Miles would remain in, if he had anything at all. Accordingly, when it came to his turn he raised before the draw--raised the pool a sovereign; and this caused two of the players to retire, leaving himself, Miles, and the dealer. He took one card--to his astonishment and concealed delight he found it was the joker. Five aces!--surely on such a hand he might bet his furniture, his clothes, his last cigarette. Five aces!--it was nothing but brute force; all that was wanted was to pile on the money; he could well afford to be reckless this time. He saw that Miles also asked for one card, and that the dealer helped himself to two; but what the took was a matter of supreme indifference to him.

It was Percival Miles's turn to bet.

"I will bet a sovereign," said he.

"And I'll stay in with you," remarked the dealer, depositing the golden coin.

"One better," said Lionel.

"And one better," said Miles.

Here the dealer retired, so that these two were left in as before--well, not as before, for Lionel had five aces in his hand! And now they made no pretence of keeping to the limit that had been imposed; their bets were registered on the bit of paper which each had by him; and pertinaciously did these two gladiators hack and slash at each other.

Lionel was quite reckless. His enemy had taken one card. Very well.

Supposing he had "filled" a flush or a straight, so much the better.

Supposing he also had got fours--that, too, was excellent well; for he could have nothing higher than four kings. Strictly speaking, there was only one hand that could beat Lionel's--a straight flush; but then a straight flush is an uncommonly rare thing; and, besides, the appearance of five aces in one's hand seems to convey a sense of quite unlimited power. That five aces are no better than four aces does not strike the possessor of them; he regards the goodly show--and strives to conceal his elation.

But even the onlookers, intensely interested as they were in this fell combat, began to grow afraid when they guessed at the sum that was now in the imaginary pool. The story might get about the club; the committee might shut up the card-room; there might be a talk of expulsion. As for Lionel, he kept saying to himself, "Well, this is a safe thing; and I could go on all night; but I won't take a brutal advantage. As soon as I think I have got back about what this young fellow has already taken from me since he came into the club, I will stop. I don't want to break him. I don't want to send him to the money-lenders."

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 800 on this evening, with 300 from yesterday--1100 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 bl.u.s.tering 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 pa.s.sed 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 5 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; a sovereign will do, if Linn will give another; and Linn has always been very good to me in this way, though for some time back I have been ashamed to take anything from him. The doctor grumbles, but gives me five shillings whenever I ask him; Auntie will give me the same; and the rest I can get from our friends and acquaintances about here. Don't be impatient with me, dear Maurice; and some day I will take you down to Whitechapel and show you the very prettiest sight in the whole world--and that is Sister Alexandra with her fifty children...."

Maurice Mangan read this pa.s.sage as he was driving in a hansom along Pall Mall, on his way to call on Lionel. The previous portion of the letter, which more intimately concerned herself and himself, he had read several times over before coming out, studying every phrase of it as if it were an individual treasure, and trying to listen for the sound of her voice in every sentence. And as for this more practical matter, why, although he was rather a poor man, he thought he was not going to allow Frances to wander about in search of grudging shillings and half-crowns so long as he himself could come to her aid; so at the foot of St. James Street he stopped the hansom, went into the telegraph-office, and sent off the following message: "Five pounds will reach you to-morrow morning. You cannot refuse my first gift in our new relationship.--Maurice." And thereafter he went on to Piccadilly--feeling richer, indeed, rather than poorer.

When he rang the bell at Lionel's lodgings, it was with no very clear idea of the message or counsel he was bringing with him; but the news he now received put all these things out of his head. The house-porter appeared, looking somewhat concerned.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Moore is up-stairs; but I'm afraid he's very unwell."

"What is the matter?" Maurice asked, instantly.

"He must have got wet coming home last night, sir; and he has caught a bad cold. I've just been for Dr. Whitsen, and he will be here at twelve."

"But Dr. Whitsen is a throat doctor."

"Yes, sir; but it is always his throat Mr. Moore is most anxious about; and when he found himself husky this morning, he would take nothing but a raw egg beaten up and a little port-wine negus; and now he won't speak--he will only write on a piece of paper. He is saving himself for the theatre to-night, sir, I think that is it; but would you like to go up and see him?"

"Oh, yes, I will go up and see him," Mangan said; and without more ado he ascended the stairs and made his way into Lionel's bedroom.

He found his friend under a perfect mountain of clothes that had been heaped upon him; and certainly he was not shivering now--on the contrary, his face was flushed and hot, and his eyes singularly bright and restless. As soon as Lionel saw who this new-comer was, he made a sign that a block of paper and a pencil lying on the table should be brought to him; and, turning slightly, he put the paper on the pillow and wrote:

"I'm nursing my voice--hope to be all right by night--are you busy to-day, Maurice?"

"No; there is no House on Sat.u.r.day," Maurice made answer.

"I wish you would stay by me," Lionel wrote, with rather a shaky hand.

"I'm in dreadful trouble. I undertook to pay Percival Miles 1100 and Lord Rockminster 300 to-day without fail; and I haven't a farthing, and don't know where to send or what to do."

"Oh, never mind about money!" Maurice said, almost impatiently, for there was something about the young man's appearance he did not at all like. "Why should you worry about that? The important business is for you to get well."

"I tell you I _must_ pay Rockminster to-day," the trembling pencil scrawled. "He was the only one of them who stood my friend. I tell you I _must_ pay him--if I have to get up and go out and seek for the money myself."

"Nonsense!" Mangan exclaimed. "What do people care about a day or two, when they hear you are ill? However, you needn't worry, Linn. As for that other sum you mention, well, that is beyond me--I couldn't lay my hands on it at once; but as for the three hundred pounds, I will lend you that--so set your mind at rest on that point."

"And you'll give it into Lord Rockminster's own hands--_this day?_"

"Surely it will be quite the same if I send the check by a commissionaire; he must get it sooner or later."

The earnest, restless eyes looked strangely supplicating.

"Into his own hands, Maurice!"

"Very well, very well," Mangan had just time to say, for here was the doctor.

Dr. Whitsen examined his patient with the customary professional calm and reticence; asked a few questions, which Lionel answered with such husky voice as was left him; and then he said,

"Yes, you have caught a severe chill, and your system is feverish generally; the throat is distinctly congested--"

"But to-night, doctor--the theatre--to-night!" Lionel broke in, excitedly. "Surely by eight o'clock--"

"Oh, quite impossible; not to be thought of," the doctor responded, with decision.

"Why can't you do something to tide me over, for the one night?" the young man said, with appealing and almost pathetic eyes. "I've never disappointed the public once before, never once; and if I could only get over to-night, there's the long rest to-morrow and Monday."