Sally Cheney - The Wager

In a few minutes Marianne put the book aside and stood impatiently. She did not remember making a conscious decision to go to Mr. Desmond’s desk. Once there, though, she began idly eyeing the papers and personal knickknacks on top of it.

Among other things there was a large foreign coin set in a circlet of glass, which Mr. Desmond used as a paperweight. Marianne had no way of knowing the coin was from the first international card game Desmond had participated in when a mere lad, still in his father’s good graces, ostensibly in Paris to study the artwork of some of the old masters. The coin was hardly a symbol of victory; Desmond had lost miserably in that game and was forced to cut his “art expedition” short. But the seasoned player who had taken most of his money was the one who had taught him never to leave his opponents penniless. Monsieur Deveraux had presented him with the coin and invited him back another time. Desmond had had a glassblower set it for him as a remembrance. In recent years when he returned to the games in Paris he was the player who doled out souvenirs to unlucky novices.

On the desk there was a letter opener that resembled a small dagger. In fact, it was a dagger—one with which a disgruntled player in Cologne had threatened him.

“Du Schwindler!” the man had screamed, jumping to his feet, knocking his chair over, brandishing the blade before him. “Ich bringe dich um!”

“Oh, do not be ridiculous, old man. I did not cheat you and you certainly are not going to kill me. Give me that little hat pin and go get yourself some good strong coffee,” Desmond had replied, taking the knife from the drunken German as easily as if he had been an old man wielding a hat pin. “Gentleman, I believe it is Bloomingard’s deal.”

Through his years of straight-faced card playing he had learned to hide his emotions and appear perfectly calm, but he had been shaken and kept the dagger as a letter opener to remind himself never to play with a man who paid exact change for his drinks and whose eyes gleamed red when he lost.

There was a worn deck of cards on the desk, an ivory thimble, a small velvet pouch holding an unset gem, each with a story behind it. Most of the objects were connected with some gambling escapade or other, though the thimble was a memento of a more romantic adventure. Marianne, unaware of the personal history each represented, fingered them with mild interest, replacing them thoughtlessly before going on to the next item.

Among the various keepsakes were a number of other things, and a smile nudged at her lips as she looked down at the disorder. Pens were scattered about; an inkstand, stained blotter, writing implements and papers mingled together haphazardly. On one corner of the desk was a pile of letters, some delivered long ago, most of them unanswered, she suspected. She picked up the first envelope and, turning it over, discovered it had not even been opened. In amusement she began to look through them, to find out how many had not been read, let alone answered.

Marianne was halfway through the stack when her conscience began to nag her; what she was doing might be interpreted as snooping. She determined to stop, but contrarily picked up one last envelope. This one had been opened. But her eyes fell on the name of the sender in the top lefthand corner, and every good intention she had of leaving Mr. Desmond’s papers alone vanished.

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