He was a young Englishman, Harry Wethermill, who, after a brilliant career at Oxford and at Munich, had so turned his scientific genius to account that he had made a fortune for himself at the age of twenty-eight.
He sat at the table with the indifferent look of the habitual player upon his cleanly chiselled face.

But it was plain that his good fortune stayed at his elbow tonight, for opposite to him the croupier was arranging with extraordinary deftness piles of bank-notes in the order of their value.

The bank was winning heavily.

Even as Ricardo looked Wethermill turned up "a natural," and the croupier swept in the stakes from either side.
"Faites vos jeux, messieurs.

Le jeu est fait ?" the croupier cried, all in a breath, and repeated the words.