He had forged his own ruin.
Alone in the world, a desperate Ishmael, Fritz Braun needed the secret protection of these powerful plutocrats.

Silently he had suffered his huge losses, waiting for the luck to turn, and now, on the eve of his great coup of criminal sagacity, he awoke at last to his own imperiled fortunes, and yet he feared to own that he dared not cease gambling, that he could not "throw up his hand." And, by one of the fantastic turns of luck which haunt even the safest "dealing" games, he had seen the tide of Fortune turn viciously against his banking dealers several times.

The "bank" had been broken at several of his tables until he had hypothecated all his reserve securities.

Ruin stared him in the face, for it had come at last.
Possessed of his regular passport, safe now in any voyage in Germany, the Low Countries, Denmark, Norway, Sweden, in Russia, Fritz Braun had long desired to break off his slavery to the "painted ladies" of the cards.
He had always kept some jewels of great value with him as a final reserve, and a nest-egg of a few thousands deposited in a Frankfort banking-house, with whose New York agents he had effected many clearings of considerable size.
Fate was now swiftly sweeping him along, he knew not whither, and on this night of discontent he bitterly calculated the chances of a stormy future.
"Ten thousand dollars only left, and whatever more my jewels will bring," he growled.

"I am safe enough, though.