Chapter One.

On the strip of yellow sand in the curve of the wall which separates the beach at Three Anchor Bay from the roadway above it two men sat playing cards in the blaze of the morning sunshine, which beat with untempered violence upon their uncovered heads, upon the hot sand that sloped gently to the rocky shore, and upon the long blue waves rolling slowly in from the Atlantic with the semblance of a succession of hooded serpents, rearing themselves with languid grace and folding over reluctantly, throwing off a stream of spray from their crests like the tail of some gigantic comet. Far out the sea was aglitter, save where it touched the horizon and lay mirror clear in the sensuous warmth, reflecting the light and colour from the sky.

With the exception of the two card players the beach was deserted; they were alone with the riot of colour and sunlight and the beauty of the sea. Neither looked at the sea. The older man, sitting cross-legged on the sand, had his back towards it; the younger, leaning, save when he dealt the cards, on his elbow, only lifted his eyes from the cards to fix them on his companion’s face, which he did at infrequent intervals with an odd half admiring resentment in their expression.

He was a well made, good-looking man of about twenty-seven. His fair skin, caught by the strong salt air and daily exposure, was burnt to a brilliant brick, the pink stain travelling down his long throat and broad chest which, moist with perspiration, showed to the waist where the grey flannel shirt was unbuttoned; the sleeves also were rolled up above his elbows revealing a pair of muscular arms covered with fine golden hairs. Strength, indolence and amazing recklessness showed in this man’s look and bearing. While giving the idea that physically he was capable of any effort of endurance, his manner conveyed also the impression that usually he would be discovered playing the passive part while others strove, that only some powerful inducement would rouse him to exert his strength: physical and mental qualities seemed here to be at variance.

His companion was altogether less noticeable; a shrewd, light-eyed, slightly built man in the thirties; a man marked early in life for moderate success in most things. One of his successes was card playing, as his adversary was discovering; perhaps he was more successful in that than in anything. For days he had been steadily winning away from its owner the recently acquired wealth which a stroke of luck had brought him; and the loser, in the grip of the gambler’s superstition, played on in the hope of winning back.

Their solitude was invaded by the sudden appearance of a girl with a collie dog. She approached unexpectedly from behind the wall within a foot or two of the players, who, flushed and intent, disregarded her in their silent concentration on the game. The girl surveyed their grouping in surprise; and the younger man, looking up involuntarily from the cards he held, paused in the act of taking one from his hand to return her curious look. She averted her eyes and walked on; and the man returned to the game, and forgot almost immediately in this greater interest that just for a moment he had been quite curiously impressed by the steady inquiring eyes which had looked into and held his with the odd intimacy and interest of their gaze.

The owner of the inquiring eyes walked leisurely down to the shore, where she paused to respond to the dog’s excited invitation by throwing a stick she carried for the purpose into the sea for him to retrieve. Again and again, when the collie brought back the stick and laid it before her and barked for a repetition of the game, the girl stooped with swift grace, picked up the stick, and with a free side swing of the arm flung it far into the waves.

“Damn that dog!” snapped the older man. “Why doesn’t the fool of a girl move farther on instead of making herself a nuisance?”

The younger man allowed his attention to stray from the cards and turn his gaze seaward. He watched the collie swimming through the surf, and the white figure of the girl poised against the blue, with the cool waves running up the wet sand almost to her feet, and the shimmering steamy heat vapour rising from the sands behind her, an atmospheric veil quivering between herself and him. The joyous barking of the dog as, emerging from the waves, it beshowered the girl plentifully in an attempt to shake the salt drops from its coat, was the only sound to disturb the harmony of the sea’s lazy response to the whisper of the breeze.

“I expect,” he said, leisurely shuffling the cards, “she considers her occupation more legitimate than ours. After all, I don’t see what cause you have to be nervy because a dog barks.”

As though the complaint had travelled across the dividing space and reached her ears, the girl started to walk, still throwing the stick when it was brought to her, but no longer remaining stationary to pursue this seemingly unending game. She disappeared with the dog round the curve; and fitfully, and growing fainter, the barking of the collie was borne back to their ears, till finally the sound died away in the distance, and only the thud of breaking waves, the swish of their advance, with the backward suck of their waters in retreat, broke the surrounding quiet. A great silence and a great stillness reigned.

At last the younger man threw down the cards, and lay back on his elbow, staring at the sea.

“That’s the finish,” he said presently, in controlled quiet tones. “You’ve cleaned me out.”

“There’s always the chance,” the other returned, rolling a cigarette and lighting it, “of a change in the luck. Why not make use of paper and pencil, and have another run on it?”

The loser shook his head.

“No; I’m done. You have the devil’s luck.”

There was a dazed look in his eyes, an unhappy lode. His companion, while feigning not to observe him was aware of it, aware too of the grim tightening of the lips, and the repressed passion underlying the unnatural calm of his manner. Guy Matheson did not often betray emotion. He had played and lost steadily for days, and had parted with his money with an indifference that had misled the other as to the resources at his command. The information that he was “cleaned out,” with the corroborative evidence of his stunned expression, came with a shock of surprise to his hearer. That which he had set himself to effect had been accomplished sooner than he had hoped. Luck and superior skill had both been in his favour. The run of luck had been consistent; each day he had been apprehensive of its changing, but it had held steadily; if it held only a little longer, all would be well.

The silence between them grew until it became difficult to break. To venture a trivial remark in the teeth of that grim pause was impossible. The man with the luck smoked reflectively, his eyes on the sand; the man without the luck stared seaward, indifferent in the preoccupation of his thoughts as to what construction his companion was likely to put upon his taciturnity. He was angry with himself, not alone because he had lost everything, but because he could not take his losses philosophically. He had no feeling of splendid adventure, no desire to flick his fingers in the face of fate and laugh. He felt much as he had felt when, a small boy, he had dropped a penny in the slot of an automatic sweet machine that was out of