Whether he was leading up to an immediate loan, or in
New York would ask for a card to a club, or an introduction to a banker,
I could not tell. But in forcing himself upon me, except in
self-interest, I could think of no other motive. The next evening I
discovered the motive.
He was in the smoking-room playing solitaire, and at once I recalled
that it was at Aix-les-Bains I had first seen him, and that he held a
bank at baccarat. When he asked me to sit down I said: "I saw you last
summer at Aix-les-Bains."
His eyes fell to the pack in his hands and apparently searched it for
some particular card.
"What was I doing?" he asked.
"Dealing baccarat at the Casino des Fleurs."
With obvious relief he laughed.
"Oh, yes," he assented; "jolly place, Aix. But I lost a pot of money
there. I'm a rotten hand at cards. Can't win, and can't leave 'em
alone." As though for this weakness, so frankly confessed, he begged me
to excuse him, he smiled appealingly. "Poker, bridge, chemin de fer, I
like 'em all," he rattled on, "but they don't like me.
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