James Pethel | Page 7

IMAGINE the
stakes are huge. And I IMAGINE I haven't another penny in the
world."
"Ah, so that with you it's always a life-and-death affair?"
He looked away.
"Oh, no, I don't say that."
"Stupid phrase," I admitted. "But"--there was yet one point I would put
to him--"if you have extraordinary luck always--"
"There's no such thing as luck."
"No, strictly, I suppose, there isn't. But if in point of fact you always do
win, then--well, surely, perfect luck driveth out fear."
"Who ever said I always won?" he asked sharply.
I waved my hands and said, "Oh, you have the reputation, you know,
for extraordinary luck."
"That isn't the same thing as always winning. Besides, I HAVEN'T
extraordinary luck, never HAVE had. Good heavens!" he exclaimed,
"if I thought I had any more chance of winning than of losing,
I'd--I'd--"

"Never again set foot in that baccarat-room to-night," I soothingly
suggested.
"Oh, baccarat be blowed! I wasn't thinking of baccarat. I was thinking
of--oh, lots of things; baccarat included, yes."
"What things?" I ventured to ask.
"What things?" He pushed back his chair. "Look here," he said with a
laugh, "don't pretend I haven't been boring your head off with all this
talk about myself. You've been too patient. I'm off. Shall I see you
to-morrow? Perhaps you'd lunch with us to-morrow? It would be a
great pleasure for my wife. We're at the Grand Hotel."
I said I should be most happy, and called the waiter; at sight of whom
my friend said he had talked himself thirsty, and asked for another
glass of water. He mentioned that he had brought his car over with him:
his little daughter (by the news of whose existence I felt idiotically
surprised) was very keen on motoring, and they were all three starting
the day after to-morrow on a little tour through France. Afterward they
were going on to Switzerland "for some climbing." Did I care about
motoring? If so, we might go for a spin after luncheon, to Rouen or
somewhere. He drank his glass of water, and, linking a friendly arm in
mine, passed out with me into the corridor. He asked what I was
writing now, and said that he looked to me to "do something big one of
these days," and that he was sure I had it in me. This remark, though of
course I pretended to be pleased by it, irritated me very much. It was
destined, as you shall see, to irritate me very much more in
recollection.
Yet I was glad he had asked me to luncheon--glad because I liked him
and glad because I dislike mysteries. Though you may think me very
dense for not having thoroughly understood Pethel in the course of my
first meeting with him, the fact is that I was only aware, and that dimly,
of something more in him than he had cared to reveal--some veil
behind which perhaps lurked his right to the title so airily bestowed on
him by Grierson. I assured myself, as I walked home, that if veil there
was, I should to-morrow find an eyelet. But one's intuition when it is
off duty seems always a much more powerful engine than it does on
active service; and next day, at sight of Pethel awaiting me outside his
hotel, I became less confident. His, thought I, was a face which, for all
its animation, would tell nothing--nothing, at any rate, that mattered. It

expressed well enough that he was pleased to see me; but for the rest I
was reminded that it had a sort of frank inscrutability. Besides, it was at
all points so very usual a face--a face that couldn't (so I then thought),
even if it had leave to, betray connection with a "great character." It
was a strong face, certainly; but so are yours and mine.
And very fresh it looked, though, as he confessed, Pethel had sat up in
"that beastly baccarat-room" till five A.M. I asked, had he lost? Yes, he
had lost steadily for four hours (proudly he laid stress on this), but in
the end--well, he had won it all back "and a bit more." "By the way," he
murmured as we were about to enter the hall, "don't ever happen to
mention to my wife what I told you about that Argentine deal. She's
always rather nervous about--investments. I don't tell her about them.
She's rather a nervous woman altogether, I'm sorry to say."
This did not square with my preconception of her. Slave that I am to
traditional imagery, I had figured her as "flaunting," as golden-haired,
as haughty to most men, but with a provocative smile across the
shoulder for some. Nor, indeed, did her husband's words save me the
suspicion that my eyes