For one of the maxims of Fernand--and, like every gambler, he had many of them--was that the best way to make a man lose money is first of all to make him win it.
Such was Monsieur Frederic Fernand.

And, if many compared him to Falstaff, and many pitied the merry, fat old man for having fallen into so hard a profession, yet there were a few who called him a bloated spider, holding his victims, with invisible cords, and bleeding them slowly to death.
To help him he had selected two men, both young, both shrewd, both iron in will and nerve and courage, both apparently equally expert with the cards, and both just as equally capable of pleasing his clients.

One was a Scotchman, McKeever; the other was a Jew, Simonds.

But in looks they were as much alike as two peas out of one pod.

They hated each other with silent, smiling hatred, because they knew that they were on trial for their fortunes.
Tonight the Jew, Simonds, was dealing at one of the tables, and the Scotchman, McKeever, stood at the side of the master of the house, ready to execute his commissions.