Chapter 1

The distinguished-looking elderly gentleman introduced himself and,
as usual, nobody caught the name. He wore a suit of fashionable and
well-cut clothes, however, and his scarf-pin was a single white
pearl in a somewhat quaint setting, its dazzling purity recalling
the whiteness of a lovely blonde’s shoulders, as Karstens remarked.
Moreover, he at once placed a sum of twenty thousand marks upon the
table in front of him.

He had been brought to the club by young Hull, the heir to an
industrial concern worth millions, into which his father allowed him to
dip freely. Play was started immediately, and the stranger courteously
agreed to the game proposed, which was vingt-et-un. The stakes were
unlimited, and the first one to hold the bank was Ritter.

At first there was nothing unusual about the game. Gains and losses
alternated, but soon it was noticed that Hull was losing, and this
began just at the time when it was the elderly gentleman’s turn to play
banker. At the start it was hundred-mark notes that Hull lost, but he
played on calmly, resigned to his ill-luck. Notes of smaller value
were now mingled with the piles of thousands the visitor had put in
front of him.

It was only outwardly, however, that Hull appeared undisturbed. He felt
a good deal of excitement within, and a veil seemed to be obscuring his
mental vision. His bank-notes fluttered across to the stranger without
his appearing aware of the fact. His senses seemed to be imprisoned in
a delicate, invisible web, pressing ever more and more closely upon him.

He drank a brandy and soda, and then ordered a bottle of champagne. The
only effect of that was to make him open another compartment of his
pocket-book and bring out the thousand-mark notes which he had procured
from the bank that morning. His bad luck became really fantastic. Even
when he held good cards it seemed as if in some obscure region of his
mind a mysterious warning sealed his lips, and instead of staking a
substantial sum, he wagered a trifling amount merely.

It was now the visitor’s turn to pass on the office of banker, but he
volunteered to continue to hold it on account of Hull. He said: “If you
gentlemen do not object, I will remain banker for a few more rounds.
You see how the money seems to cling to me. I am the guest of your
hospitable club, so please consider how difficult my position is with
regard to Herr von Hull, and grant my request.” His speech was polite,
and carefully enunciated, yet there was a masterful ring about the
words, as if the speaker would brook no refusal.

The club attendant eyed the guest suspiciously, but he was using the
cards provided by the club and fresh packs were opened every time. The
play grew more animated. A good deal had been drunk, and several round
the table were slightly intoxicated. The guest did not refrain from
drinking, and his behaviour was in no way peculiar. He had a steady
and lingering glance for everyone who looked at him, and his large
grey eyes seemed to have something dominating about them, hardly in
accordance with a mere game. His hands were large and fleshy, and as
steady as if carved out of wood, while the fingers of the other men,
far younger than he, were already quivering with excitement.

Hull continued playing, though his pocket-book grew lighter and
lighter. “What is the matter with me?” he continually asked himself. He
wanted to rise from the table and miss a round, so that he could get a
mouthful of fresh air at the window and gain a little calm from looking
into the silent night. But he sat as if glued to his chair, pressing
his elbows down on the crimson cloth, and his thoughts escaped his
control, falling into a void like that of deep slumber.

And yet he was not really a reckless player. He was accustomed to
reflect and to follow the run of luck, making use of chances that were
favourable to him, and reducing his stakes when he saw that the odds
were against him.

This evening, however, he seemed to know no bounds. No amount seemed
of any value in his eyes, and it appeared as if he were almost glad
to lose, and saw his notes change hands with a kind of satisfaction.
Something would be sure to happen ere long. The players seemed far too
slow in dealing, he thought; they took an endless time in declaring
their stakes, and the notes crawled round the table at a snail’s pace.

He drank freely, moreover, and the fancies which he could no longer
control were like fiery steeds escaping the driver’s restraining hand
and running away into a trackless wilderness. The very air seemed to
have been exhausted, and nothing existed for him but the game.

Folks began to discuss his bad luck. He certainly drew unlucky cards,
but he was playing his hand badly, and taking unreasonable risks. His
friends wanted to restrict the stakes and talk of the final round.
At first Hull did not take in what they were saying, and they had to
explain their words; then he drew himself up and became furiously
angry, shouting in his wrath and beating his fist on the table.

Then the stranger’s big eyes seemed to withdraw a little from him
and the rest; their glance appeared to be directed inward and some
of their lustre vanished. He laid down his cards and put his money
into his pocket, doing it carelessly, however, as if it were merely
a handkerchief. There was one more round to finish. Hull called out,
“I’ll play the bank,” and the stranger dealt him the cards. He glanced
at them quickly. His total was twenty-one.... Then something happened,
something strange and inexplicable. He threw his cards face downwards
upon the heap, saying, “I have lost again.”

The guest immediately showed _his_ cards. His eyes regained their
glitter, he counted his points, named the total, and threw his cards
down on the table.

It seemed to Hull as if he were falling from an unsteady foothold
down into an abyss below. “What have I been doing?” he asked himself
in stupefaction and despair. Now at last he began to see everything
as clearly as if he had just come into the room: the three glowing
electric globes under their protecting dome, the red-covered, lighted
table, his friends, the elderly stranger, the scattered cards and the
piles of notes.

“Where have I been? What have I been doing?” he stammered.

His brain grew alert again, and the thoughts that had been so confused
and obscure now became suddenly clear: it was as if he had drawn
aside the curtains and let in the light of day. Then he felt a sudden
distrust of himself, which made him uneasy. He held his head in his
hands awhile, striving to free it from the weight that seemed to
encircle it, and then raising himself erect, he said, “What have I been
doing? I held twenty-one in my hand, and then someone called out, in my
voice, ‘I have lost again.’ Look there!” He snatched the cards he had
thrown away from the heap where they lay, and turned them over. They
were an ace, a ten, and a knave--twenty-one!

The elderly stranger’s large grey eyes contracted until the pupils were
quite small and seemed to be gazing at a far-distant spot. A shudder
went through his body; it was perceptible, though hastily subdued. Then
his breast expanded and his breath came slowly and with difficulty, as
if he were having to pump the air direct into himself.

“Too late!” said he, briefly and decisively.

Hull made a slight gesture.

“My remark had nothing to do with you,” he said quietly; “it concerned
myself only. How much do I owe you?” he asked in a friendly tone.

“Thirty thousand marks!”

Hull emptied his pocket-book.

“You must content yourself till to-morrow afternoon with ten thousand
and, of course, an I O U for the rest. Will you be so good as to write
the amount and your address in this notebook?”

When Hull got his little notebook back, he read in it:

BALLING,
ROOM 15, EXCELSIOR HOTEL.

He passed over his I O U, smiling pleasantly as he did so.

“I am ready to give you your revenge, Herr von Hull,” said Balling,
as he rose. “Gentlemen, may I offer you my thanks for the evening’s
hospitality? Good-night!”

He said this almost abruptly, but in so decisive a tone that it brought
the others to their feet. Karstens offered him his car.

“No, thank you; my own is waiting for me.”

He walked away somewhat stiffly, as though tired out, and vouchsafed no
further farewell of any sort. The club attendant conducted him to the
outer door.

“Hull, you are off your head,” said Karstens, when the stranger had
left the room.

“What did really happen?” asked Hull quietly.

“Ask your purse!”

“My pocket-book is empty. Who won all my money?”

“Your friend there,” said Karstens, pointing to the door.

“My friend! I never set eyes on him before! How did he get here?”

“Hull, you certainly are needing the services of a good physician.
Emil, bring the telephone directory.” Karstens turned over the
leaves. “Here we are: Dr. Schramm, Psychopathological treatment, 35,
Ludwigstrasse....”

“I don’t understand your joke, my dear Karstens.”

“Well, who brought this fine vingt-et-un player here but you?”

“That is not true, Karstens.”

“Go to No. 35, Ludwigstrasse, my dear fellow, and quickly too.”

“Of course it was you who brought him, Hull,” said another.

“_I?_ _I_ brought him? At any rate, I don’t remember a thing about it,
but it may be so.”

Hull then withdrew, exhausted and stupefied, brooding over the problem
which had so strangely and suddenly opened up before him that evening.

When he awoke, towards morning, he had a dim and fleeting remembrance,
and he seemed to recall the stranger sitting at the same table with
him in the Café Bastin. He had an idea that they had been talking
together, and that it was about the theatre, but what they had said,
and which theatre it was about, he had not the slightest idea. In
the dim recesses of his mind he recalled merely the sensation of a
dazzling reflector that seemed to throw its beams upon him during the
conversation. Sleep was no longer possible, but, try as he would to
pierce these elusive fragments of memory and penetrate to the reality
behind them, he was quite unable to make anything out of them.

* * * * *

The next afternoon brought him no enlightenment either. By four o’clock
he had obtained the twenty thousand marks, and he made his way to the
Excelsior Hotel. At his request a telephone message was sent to Room
15. Herr Balling was there, he was told, and requested the gentleman to
send up his card. This Hull did, following close upon it.

In the middle of Room 15 he found a man whom he had never seen in his
life before. He was a short, stout, clean-shaven man, apparently an
American. He made a very stiff bow.

“I beg your pardon,” said Hull. “I must have been directed wrongly. I
wanted Room 15.”

“This is it,” said the other.

“Then Herr Balling must have given me the wrong number.”

“My name is Balling.”

“This time I am _not_ dreaming, I am in full possession of my senses,”
said Hull to himself, and then aloud, he continued: “But the mystery
can soon be explained. Did you write this?” and he extended the
notebook in which the stranger of the previous night had written his
name and address.

“Certainly not,” replied the stout man.

“Then I am not in your debt to the tune of twenty thousand marks?”

“My time is very limited, and I am expecting a friend on business,”
said the other, looking at his watch.

“I will make way for your friend, sir, at once, and will only put one
more question to you. It is not my fault that I am bothering you; I
have been misled in some way.”

The other nodded.

“Possibly you are acquainted,” Hull went on, “with a gentleman of about
sixty, with large grey eyes, a big nose and white whiskers. He wears
good and well-cut clothes and a tall grey hat, and his name is also
Balling.”

“I can only repeat that I know nothing about him,” said the Balling of
No. 15.

Hull thereupon took his leave. Downstairs he asked whether there were
a second Herr Balling in the hotel, but the answer was “No.” Had Room
15 been occupied by any Herr Balling who had just left? “No.” Was the
writing in the pocket-book known? Again there was a negative reply.
“For the first time in my life,” thought Hull, “I find myself unable to
pay a debt of honour.”

Gradually he became uneasy. What a mysterious affair this was! Nothing
of the kind had ever occurred before. He had won money and lost it
again ... sometimes much, and at other times little. He had been in
financial straits. He had had some trouble about a girl he cared for.
Once, indeed, he had been seriously wounded in a duel. Yet all that was
comprehensible and straightforward, so to speak. But this tale of Herr
Balling and the twenty thousand marks had some mystery or other behind
it. He had forgotten that it was he who introduced the stranger to the
club. He had played as if he had lost his head. He had incurred a debt
of twenty thousand marks, and his creditor had furnished a name and
address which did actually exist but were not his, and, moreover, he
would not have the money....

If it had not happened that Hull had no mistress at the moment, he
could have talked this affair over. He pondered over it alone while he
walked along Lenbach Square and the Promenade, looking everybody in the
face in the hope that he might encounter the distinguished stranger
among them. He went to the Café Bastin and scanned all the faces there.
He sat down at a table and waited to see whether the _genius loci_
would be favourable to him and recall the vanished recollections;
but nothing came of it, and he stood up again, a prey to increasing
uneasiness. It seemed as if in the invisible depths behind him another
power, extraneous to himself, was pursuing him, pressing down upon him,
trying to jump on his back as a monkey might do, and lead him into
unlucky adventures of some kind or another.

Hull forced himself to return to his lonely bachelor chambers. There he
met Karstens, and greeted him with relief. But Karstens at once asked:

“Well, has your memory returned?”

“My dear fellow, there’s something wrong with me!”

“With the twenty thousand marks?”

“No, there they are!” and he tapped his breast-pocket. “Nobody
wants them, it appears. There is a Herr Balling in Room 15 at the
‘Excelsior,’ but he isn’t my man, and we’ve never met before. He has
never played vingt-et-un, and nobody owes _him_ twenty thousand marks.
I can’t get rid of the money, and it makes me feel creepy! Something
is going to happen to me. Who _is_ there near me whom I cannot see?
There’s certainly something wrong with me!”

“Come to the club! Perhaps your Herr Balling will go there to fetch the
money himself.”

“Yes, but what about the real Balling in No. 15?”

“Well, that’s certainly odd, I grant you. Come along.”

“All right. Perhaps he’ll be there.”

In the club that night there was no play. The curious circumstance
had so worked upon the members’ imagination that no one felt the need
of trying his luck. Hull was overwhelmed with well-meaning or obtuse
advice.

“Emil,” said one of them to the attendant, “what did his car look like?”

“An excellent one, Herr Baron, a twenty-horsepower at the least--a
closed car with a body like a royal cradle, if one may use such a
comparison nowadays ... so smooth and well rounded and polished. It
started off with a great bound, and soon vanished. It was a first-class
car. I kept a close eye on the gentleman, and I saw that he had the
devil’s own luck when he played against Herr von Hull. He played quite
straight, however.”

They learnt nothing more about the stranger. Nobody came either to the
club or to Hull’s rooms to ask for the twenty thousand marks or to
offer him his revenge.

A few days afterwards Hull made acquaintance with a girl who was
performing jazz dances in the Bonbonnière. She was partly Mexican, she
told him. She soon effected a diversion in his thoughts, and in her
company he rapidly got rid of the twenty thousand marks which he could
not pay over to the stranger.

“It seems as if you were meant to give the money to a woman instead of
to a man,” remarked Karstens, when he told him that he was now free of
his worries once more.