The Opal Serpent Part 27

By this time the card-party had broken up. Maud had lost a few pounds, and Lord George a great deal. But Miss Qian and Hay had won.

"What luck," groaned the young lord. "Everything seems to go wrong with me."

"Stop and we'll try another game when the ladies have gone," suggested Hay, his impa.s.sive face lighting up, "then Beecot--"

"I must go," said the young gentleman, who did not wish to be called upon as a witness in a possible card scandal.

"And I'll go too," said Lord George. "Whenever I play with you, Hay, I always seem to lose."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Grexon, fiercely.

"Oh, he doesn't mean anything," said Miss Qian, sweetly, and putting her cloak round her. "Mr. Beecot, just take me to my cab."

"I'll take you to your carriage," said Hay, offering an arm to Mrs.

Krill, which she accepted graciously.

Lord George followed, grumbling, with the ever-smiling Maud. Miss Qian skipped into a hansom, and offered Paul a drive back to town which he refused. As the cab was driving off she bent down and whispered, "Be careful," with a side-glance at Hay.

Paul laughed. Everyone seemed to doubt Hay. But that gentleman handed Mrs. Krill and her daughter into their carriage, and looked towards Lord George. "You don't want your revenge to-night?" he asked.

"No, confound you!" said the young man, sulkily.

"In that case I'll drive into Kensington with Mrs. Krill, and borrow her carriage for a trip to Piccadilly. Good-night, Sandal. Good-night, Beecot."

He waved his hand, and the ladies waved theirs, and then the three drove away. Lord George lighted a cigar, and putting his arm within that of Beecot, strolled down the road. "Come to my club," he said.

"No, thank you," answered Paul, politely, "I must get home."

"But I wish you'd come. I hate being by myself and you seem such a good sort of chap."

"Well," said Beecot, thinking he might say a word in season to this young fool, "I don't gamble."

"Oh, you cry down that, do you?"

"Well, I think it's foolish."

"It is," a.s.sented Lord George, frankly, "infernally foolish. And Hay has all the luck. I wonder if he plays square."

This was dangerous ground, and Paul s.h.i.+ed. "I really can't say," he said coldly, "I don't play cards."

"But what do you know of Hay?" asked Sandal.

"Only that he was at school with me at Torrington. We met by accident the other day, and he asked me to dinner."

"Torrington. Yes. I had a brother at that school once," said Lord George, "but you and Hay wouldn't get on well together, I should think.

You're straight, and he's--"

"You forget, we have been dining with him," said Paul, quickly.

"What of that. I've dined often and have paid pretty dearly for the privilege. I must have lost at least five thousand to him within the last few months."

"In that case I should advise you to play cards no more. The remedy is easy," said Paul, dryly.

"It isn't so easy to leave off cards," rejoined Sandal, gloomily. "I'm that fond of gambling that I only seem to live when I've got the cards or dice in my hand. I suppose it's like dram-drinking."

"If you take my advice, Lord George, you'll give up card-playing."

"With Hay, do you mean?" asked the other, shrewdly.

"With anyone. I know nothing about Hay beyond what I have told you."

"Humph," said Sandal, "I don't think you're a chap like him at all. I may look a fool, but I ain't, and can see through a brick wall same as most Johnnies."

"Who can't see at all," interpolated Paul, dryly.

"Ha! ha! that's good. But I say about this Hay. What a queer lot he had there to-night."

"I can't discuss that," said Paul, stiffly. He was not one to eat a man's bread and salt and then betray him.

Sandal went on as though he hadn't heard him. "That actress is a jolly little woman," said he. "I've seen her at the Frivolity--a ripping fine singer and dancer she is. But those other ladies?"

"Mrs. and Miss Krill."

The young lord stopped short in the High Street. "Where have I heard that name?" he said, looking up to the stars; "somewhere--in the country maybe. I go down sometimes to the Hall--my father's place. I don't suppose you'd know it. It's three miles from Christchurch."

"In Hants," said Paul, feeling he was on the verge of a discovery.

"Yes. Have you been there?"

"No. But I have heard of the place. There's an hotel there called 'The Red Pig,' which I thought--"

"Ha!" cried young Sandal, stopping again, and with such a shout that pa.s.sers-by thought he was drunk. "I remember the name. 'The Red Pig'; a woman called Krill kept that."

"She can hardly be the same," said Paul, not wis.h.i.+ng to betray the lady.

"No. I guess not. She'd hardly have the cheek to sit down with me if she did. But Krill. Yes, I remember--my aunt, you know."

"Your aunt?"

"Yes," said Sandal, impatiently, "she was murdered, or committed suicide in that 'Red Pig' place. Rachel Sandal--with her unlucky opals."

"Her unlucky opals! What do you mean?"

"Why, she had a serpent set with opals she wore as a brooch, and it brought her bad luck."

CHAPTER XVI