He felt quite
sure the lights would not burn much longer. As he turned, a woman came
forward from out the lighted hall, hovered uncertainly before him, and
then made a silent salutation, which was something between a courtesy
and a bow. That she was a woman and rather short and plainly dressed,
and that her bobbing up and down annoyed him, was all that he realized
of her presence, and he quite failed to connect her movements with
himself in any way. "Sir," she said in French, "I beg your pardon, but
might I speak with you?" The Goodwood Plunger possessed a somewhat
various knowledge of Monte Carlo and its _habitues_. It was not the
first time that women who had lost at the tables had begged a napoleon
from him, or asked the distinguished child of fortune what color or
combination she should play. That, in his luckier days, had happened
often and had amused him, but now he moved back irritably and wished
that the figure in front of him would disappear as it had come.
"I am in great trouble, sir," the woman said. "I have no friends here,
sir, to whom I may apply. I am very bold, but my anxiety is very
great."
The Goodwood Plunger raised his hat slightly and bowed. Then he
concentrated his eyes with what was a distinct effort on the queer
little figure hovering in front of him, and stared very hard.
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