The
story, pruned of his moral philosophy, deserves no more than the
slightest touch. It is no new tale, that of the gambler's declension.
During one night's sitting he lost, and then had imperilled a certain
amount of his employer's money, which, by accident, he carried with
him. He continued to lose, to the last wager, and then began to gain,
leaving the game winner to a somewhat formidable sum. The same night
his employer's safe was robbed. A search was had; the winnings of
Lorison were found in his room, their total forming an accusative
nearness to the sum purloined. He was taken, tried and, through
incomplete evidence, released, smutched with the sinister _devoirs_
of a disagreeing jury.
"It is not in the unjust accusation," he said to the girl, "that my
burden lies, but in the knowledge that from the moment I staked the
first dollar of the firm's money I was a criminal--no matter whether
I lost or won. You see why it is impossible for me to speak of love
to her."
"It is a sad thing," said Norah, after a little pause, "to think what
very good people there are in the world."
"Good?" said Lorison.
"I was thinking of this superior person whom you say you love. She
must be a very poor sort of creature."
"I do not understand.
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