The words which head this chapter are hard words. One cannot deny it. They are intended to be so. Being so, they belong to the class of utterances which, according to the sages, 'break no bones.' This may be true enough even of collusion and conspiracy. But in all conscience, or the lack of it, these have broken hearts and fortunes enough to compensate for any amount of merely physical incapacity.

There cannot be the slightest doubt that a large proportion of the cheating which goes on, in what is called polite society, is accomplished by these means. The high position of the players is, unfortunately, no guarantee of fidelity. One may be cheated anywhere, even in exclusive clubs of the most recherchÉ character, as many know to their cost. Practically, there is no high and dry rock upon which the gambler can perch, and say to the tide of cheating—'Thus far shalt thou come, and no farther.' He is not safe anywhere, for he can never tell who may not be tempted, at some time or other, to resort to dishonest practices. The sharp is not always a professional; he may, now and then, be an amateur. Where the stakes are heavy, the temptation to take an unfair advantage of an opponent is occasionally too great for some to resist; especially where no risk of detection is run in so doing. Accidental circumstances will sometimes give a player overwhelming advantages in the play, of which none but he are aware; and who shall say that he will not avail himself of the opportunity which chance has thrown in his way? Against this sort of thing, however, there is no other safeguard than the watchfulness of the players. Where, then, is the 'game,' the amusement, if one has to play, armed at all points, as it were, and living in dread of pickpockets?

It is not with this sporadic kind of cheating, however, that we now have to deal, but with the systematic banding together of individuals to swindle at play. As a notable example of this kind of thing, the reader will do well to peruse the recital of the following incident, which occurred a few winters ago at one of the leading clubs in the West End of London.

At this club a very favourite game was ÉcartÉ, played generally 'À la galerie.' That is to say, the bystanders were allowed to bet among themselves, or with the players, as to the result of the game. In this case, the lookers-on form themselves into two parties, one behind each player, and lay wagers upon the chances of their respective champions.

The doings of this club, then, afforded an opportunity for cheating which was too good to be missed. Certain unprincipled members therefore proposed, and managed to get elected, two clever French card-sharpers. The method of procedure adopted was to place these two men opposed to each other at a card-table, and let them play ÉcartÉ. As large a 'gallery' as possible was assembled, and then the fun began. There was nothing of refinement or delicacy of operation in the method employed. All that took place was simply that one or the other of the players lost to order. According to how the betting ran, that is to say, according to the player whose winning would put the most money into the pockets of the conspirators, so would the result of the game be. Certain signs were made to the players, unobserved of the outsiders, and in response to these signs the game was made to go in one direction or the other.

The favourite plan appeared to be for all the conspirators to station themselves behind one of the men, and, of course, other members of the club who wished to join in had to take up their position behind the other. The secret brotherhood then made as many bets with those across the table as they could. When this had been effected, their player was sure to win. If the cards were not running favourably to him, he would put up hands for himself, make the bridge, and give the cards to be cut. No doubt, out of pure courtesy, his opponent would obligingly cut at the required place. At the end of the evening the proceeds were divided among the conspirators.

Well, this little game had gone on for some time, and had doubtless been the means of putting in circulation a good deal of capital which otherwise would have remained locked up, when a most unforeseen and regrettable incident occurred. Among the newly-elected members of the club was one who had some little knowledge of sleight-of-hand. Chancing to be a spectator of the proceedings one evening, he at once 'tumbled to the bridge.' He might well do so, for, as one of the fraternity remarked, the players had latterly become so secure in the ignorance of the members that, owing to their carelessness, the structure referred to had become not so much a bridge as a veritable 'Arc de Triomphe.' Through the enlightenment which was thus brought about, the matter came to be laid before the committee. The result was that ÉcartÉ À la Galerie was prohibited. Those who are familiar with club matters will doubtless remember the circumstance, and know the club to which allusion is made.

A very necessary adjunct to collusion of almost any kind is some system of secret telegraphy. With such a system in operation between two or more players who are in secret partnership, there are many games in which winning can be made a certainty. The telegraphy, of course, is seldom of a character which would permit those acquainted with it to indulge in secret gossip, but for the most part consists of signs which indicate the names of the cards. Generally speaking there will be two classes of indications, one for suit, and one for value. For instance, if the player who is signalling is seen to lay his right hand open upon the table, that may serve to indicate hearts; if the hand, instead of lying flat, is resting upon its side, that may mean spades; if clenched flat on the table, clubs may be signified; and finally, if clenched and thumb upwards, that may denote diamonds. The values of the cards are no less easy to indicate. If the telegraphist looks upwards, that may mean an ace; if downwards, a king; if to the left, a queen; if straight in front of him, a knave; if to the right, a ten; with head on one side, and looking upward, a nine; ditto, and looking to the right, an eight; ditto, and to the left a seven, and so on through the whole number. There is no difficulty in arranging a system of this kind, to be worked either by word or sign, and such systems if carefully thought out are very difficult to detect.

Suppose two partners at whist are in collusion and one of them is about to lead. The other may desire him to lead clubs. He may, therefore, address to anyone in the room a sentence beginning, 'Can you tell me——' The initial letter of the sentence indicates the suit which he desires his partner to lead. If he wanted diamonds he would say 'Do you know——' &c. If it was necessary to call for hearts he would observe, 'Have you seen——' &c. Lastly, if spades were in requisition he would ask some question beginning, 'Shall you have——' These things are all very simple, but they mean a great deal, sometimes, in a game of cards.

Another system of signalling sometimes adopted is to indicate the fact of certain cards being held by the position in which the cards are laid upon the table. The person signalling, having looked at his hand, wishes to let his accomplice know that he holds a certain card of importance in the game. Therefore, whilst waiting till the other players have sorted their hands, he closes up his cards for the moment, and lays them before him on the table. The manner of their disposition will give the required cue, or, as it is called, 'office.' The end of the cards farthest from the operator may be taken to represent a kind of pointer, which is set opposite to some particular figure upon an imaginary dial, supposed to be drawn upon the table. Several cards can be indicated in this way, and for others additional factors can be introduced. For instance, the cards may be spread a little, the top card may project a little to one side or over one end, or the operator may keep his fingers resting upon the cards. In fact, the variety of signals is infinite. From the laying down of a cigar to the taking up of a glass of wine, from the opening of the mouth to the stroking of the chin, every movement, however simple and unsuspicious, can be made the means of cheating at almost any game. A code of signals to indicate every card in the pack, and no more difficult to decipher than the Morse code in telegraphy, can be arranged by anyone in five minutes. Indeed, the Morse code itself can be used in connection with what the French sharps call 'La dusse invisible,' a system of signalling to an accomplice by pressure of the foot under the table. In using this system care must, of course, be taken not to tread on the wrong person's toes.

An instance of card-sharping, involving the use of secret telegraphy, once came under the author's notice, in connection with the projected exposure of a noted card-sharp. The circumstances of the case arose in the following manner.

It is well known that one of the most able and uncompromising among exposers of fraud at the present day is Mr. Henry Labouchere, M.P., the Editor and Proprietor of 'Truth.' In the columns of that widely read and influential publication, the trenchant criticisms and fearless utterances of 'Scrutator' have done yeoman's service in the cause of truth and justice.

The author has had the privilege upon several occasions of being associated with Mr. Labouchere in the running to earth of impostors of various kinds, and one of those occasions was in connection with the case of the sharp above referred to. Some of the details will doubtless occur to the minds of those who recollect the name of the man known as Lambri Pasha. It is advisable to say 'known as,' for whether his real name was anything resembling that there is nothing to show. If there is one thing which one may be inclined to believe more than another, it is that although Lambri the man may have been, Pasha he certainly was not.

This man Lambri, then, an Italian by birth and a sharp by profession, had carried on his operations upon so large a scale as to bring himself prominently before the notice of 'Scrutator.' As usual in such cases, 'Scrutator' proceeded to make short work of him.

At the time referred to, this Lambri happened to have a quarrel with one of his accomplices, and in revenge this man revealed to Mr. Labouchere the entire modus operandi of the means used by his employer to cheat the gamblers in those high circles to which he had obtained access.

This being the case, the author was approached by Mr. Labouchere with a view to arranging a plan of action whereby the arch swindler might be caught red-handed, and the exposure made complete. The following scheme was accordingly devised. The author, in the guise of a country squire supposed to be of great wealth, was to be presented to Lambri, and invited to join in the game of baccarat, specially arranged for the 'staging' of the little drama which was to follow.

Needless to say it was not proposed that the author, although armed, should be alone in a venture which promised to result in violence of a more or less pronounced type. Among the other guests it was arranged to have some whose daily avocations were not altogether unconnected with Scotland Yard.

Lambri's system was an exceedingly simple one. It was worked with the assistance of a confederate, and baccarat was the game principally favoured. In this game three packs of cards are used in combination, forming one large pack of 156 cards. It is obviously impossible to hold this bulky pack in the hands with any degree of convenience whilst the cards are being shuffled; therefore the shuffle is accomplished by standing the cards on edge upon the table with their faces turned away from the dealer, and in this position they are mixed together. Lambri, having taken the 'bank,' would proceed to shuffle the cards in the manner described. During this operation, and as the various cards were brought to the front, the confederate, who had taken up a convenient position, would indicate to his principal their value by means of a code of signals arranged for that purpose. From the explanations already given the reader will have no difficulty in deducing the manner in which the cards were put up for the advantage of the 'bank.'

In order to detect this manoeuvre, then, it would be necessary to watch the proceedings from the commencement, note the arrangement adopted, and at the right moment give the signal for seizing both cards and dealer.

Preparations having been made for carrying this plan into effect, and all due precautions having been taken, it was hoped that Lambri would quietly walk into the snare which had been set for him. 'The best laid schemes,' however, 'gang aft agley.' Whether the confederate had played fast and loose with both sides, which is more than probable, or whether information had leaked out through some other channel, it is impossible to say. Certain it is, however, that Lambri obtained an inkling of what was in progress, and took steps—or rather, 'made tracks'—accordingly. The day previous to that decided upon for the exposure the accomplice received a telegram from Paris informing him that the object of our kind attentions, owing to pressure of important business, would be detained there for some weeks.

There can be no doubt that the affairs which so suddenly called him to Paris were both pressing and important; for, to all appearance, they have occupied his attention ever since. That appointment has never been kept, and, so far as can be ascertained, he has never from that date to this put in an appearance in England. To all his former friends and acquaintances he is 'lost to sight,' though, to a great many of them, he undoubtedly is 'to memory dear,' and very dear.

A sharp may generally be trusted to arrive at a sound decision in all matters affecting his own interests; and it certainly cannot be said that 'Lambri Pasha' has proved himself to be an exception to the rule.

At baccarat collusion and conspiracy are generally used for the purpose of 'rooking' some particular individual of the pronounced 'Juggins' type, and the plan of operation is somewhat as follows.

We will suppose that the field of action is the card-room of some small club, where baccarat is played clandestinely, and for heavy stakes. Among the members who are addicted to this pastime there is one youngster with more money than brains, and several of the reverse characteristics. Half a dozen of these latter habituÉs of the club will sit around a table prepared for the game in an upper chamber, waiting the advent of their victim. Upon the table in front of the dealer is the shoe containing the proper number of packs: the cards being arranged, we will say, to give six winning coups to the bank, and then to lose right out to the end. They are not playing—far from it, although the table may be strewn with money. Theirs is a waiting game for the present, and they are passing the time as best they can. When the dupe arrives at the club it is whispered to him that there is a little game in progress upstairs. His arrival is signalled to the conspirators, and by the time the innocent fledgling reaches the room, there is a game apparently in full blast. The new-comer sees that the bank is winning every time. At the end of the six winning coups the dealer says he has won enough, or makes some other excuse for retiring from the game. A new dealer is therefore required, and it does not need much persuasion to induce the 'mug' to take the bank. There is a superstition to the effect that banks which commence luckily for the dealer will continue so to the end, and the unfortunate youth never suspects that it is a 'put-up job' for him. Consequently he sits down to play, and naturally he loses everything to the end of the deal. The 'Juggins,' however jubilant he may have been, soon finds that he has no cause for rejoicing. You see, when a man takes the bank in the middle of a game he cannot have the cards shuffled, but must take them just as they lie on the table, and continue the game from the point at which the last dealer left it. If proceedings of this kind are not to be stigmatised as wholesale robbery, it is difficult to see how they are to be described.

The most common method of cheating at poker in clubs and private houses alike, but particularly in good society, is one which is accomplished by means of collusion, and in connection with that process of the game known as 'raising out.'

In poker, the bets of the players are raised in rotation around the table, and the players who wish to remain 'in'—that is to say, those who do not wish to forfeit what they have already staked—must all have equal stakes in the pool. Now, unless a man has a particularly good hand he is not disposed to risk too much upon its chance of winning; consequently, when the stakes have risen to a certain amount, he will stand out rather than go beyond what he has already risked.

Two men, then, in secret partnership, upon sitting down to play, will contrive to get the man with most money, or the best player (their greatest antagonist) between them. Therefore, if these two men systematically raise their bets, whether they have good hands or not, they must eventually reach the point at which the other players will 'go out.' If the man between them wishes to remain in, he must make good, or, in other words, bring his stakes up to an amount equal to those of the conspirators. This he may do for some time, but sooner or later the game will become 'too hot' for him and he will go out. He is between two fires, and stands no chance whatever. Then, everyone else having gone out, the game is in the hands of the two sharps, and they can finish it in any way they think best. They may keep on raising each other for a time, until at last one of them refuses to stake another 'chip,' and throws away his hand, and then the other simply takes the pool. Or one of them may 'call' the other, and upon seeing the hand may throw his own away without showing it, the inference being that it is not so good as that of his supposed antagonist. There is really no need for the other players to see either of the hands. They cannot be called, because one or the other of them is always raising his stakes, and until the stakes are made good without anyone raising, the call is not complete and no hands are shown. Then, when all the other players are 'raised out,' there is nobody left to call upon them to show their hands. At the end of the evening, of course, they divide the spoil.

These things may all appear to be very simple, but they are extremely difficult of detection by outsiders. Indeed, it is the very simplicity of collusion that constitutes the great charm of its employment, and the great safeguard against its detection. Unlike manipulation, it can be accomplished by anyone and gives far less indication of its existence. The only drawback to it is that where there is a conspiracy there is always a chance of rogues falling out, and honest men being put in possession of the truth.

In every kind of game, and in every department of trickery, collusion has been utilised as a ready means of arriving at the consummation of the sharp's desires. It is seldom, indeed, that a scheme of any magnitude is devised without more than one person concerned in it; and the accomplices have assumed every kind of guise, tinkers, tailors, soldiers, sailors, waiters, club-porters, card-canvassers, and even officers of justice. There is no end to the disguises in which these individuals have appeared, and apparently no limit to their ingenuity.

One of the most immense frauds ever perpetrated in connection with sharping, and in which the fewest persons were concerned, was that recorded by Houdin. At the outset it was entirely conceived and executed by one sharp alone, although another took part in it at a later stage, much to the disappointment of the original promoter of the scheme. As this incident is of interest, and exhibits in a striking manner the possibilities of cheating which exist at all times and in all places, the reader shall have the benefit of its perusal. Although the events happened many years ago, the story is not very well known, and is well worthy of retelling.

At the date of the narrative, Havana, according to the historian, was the place most addicted to gambling of any in the world. As he also observed, that was not saying a little. And it was in that haven of delight that the occurrences related took place.

A Spanish sharp, named Bianco, purchased in his own country a tremendous stock of playing-cards; and, in view of the undertaking in which he was about to embark, he opened every one of the packs, marked all the cards, and sealed them up again in their wrappers. This he did so skilfully that there was no evidence of the fact that the packages had ever been tampered with. The stupendous feat involved in a proceeding of this kind being successfully accomplished, the cards were shipped off to Havana and there disposed of to the card-dealers at a ruinous sacrifice. So good indeed were these cards, and so cheap, that in a very little while the dealers could not be induced to purchase those of any other make. Thus after a time there were hardly any cards circulating in the place other than those which had been falsified by Bianco.

The sharp, it may be imagined, was not long in following upon the track of his cards; and being a man of good address, he contrived to obtain introductions into the best society. He played everywhere, of course, and where he played he won. Hardly ever being called upon to use any cards but his own, it is not surprising that he should rapidly acquire wealth among people whose chief recreation appeared to be gambling. To avert suspicion, however, he was careful to complain constantly of the losses he had sustained.

Among the various clubs in Havana was one which was of the most exclusive kind. The committee was so vigilant, and such great precautions were taken to prevent the admission of doubtful characters, that hitherto it had been kept free from the contamination of cheating. Into this club, however, Bianco contrived to effect an entrance, and carried on his operations therein with much success. He was destined, notwithstanding the zeal of the committee, to remain alone in the field but a very short time. Another sharp, a Frenchman this time, contrived also to obtain admission to the club; and he, too, set to work to prospect the country, thinking that he had possessed himself of a gold-mine as yet unexploited.

Accordingly, this second adventurer, Laforcade by name, seized a favourable opportunity of appropriating a quantity of the club cards. These he took home with him for the purpose of marking them, intending to return them when marked to the stock from which they had been taken. One may imagine the man's surprise upon opening the packs to find that every card had already been marked.

Evidently, then, somebody had been before him, and Laforcade determined to find out who it could be. He made inquiries as to where the cards were obtained, and, purchasing some at the same place, found that these also were marked. In fact, every pack that he could procure had been tampered with in like manner. Here then was a gigantic swindle, and he determined to profit by it. He would let the other man do all the work, but he would share in the profits. If the other man, whoever he might be, would not listen to reason, he would threaten to hand him over to the police. Having arrived at this decision, he set to work to watch the play of the various members of the club, and, naturally, the invariable good fortune of Bianco could not fail to attract his attention. Keeping strict watch upon that gentleman's proceedings, Laforcade soon arrived at the conclusion that Bianco, and no other, was the man of whom he was in search. He therefore took an early opportunity of engaging his brother-swindler in a quiet game of ÉcartÉ, whilst no other members of the club were present.

The game was played, and Bianco won, as a matter of course. Then, as usual, the winner asked his opponent if he was satisfied, or whether he would prefer to have his revenge in another game. Much to his surprise, however, instead of saying simply whether he preferred to play again or not, the loser coolly rested his elbows on the table, and regarding his adversary composedly, gave him to understand that the entire secret of the cheerful little deception which was being practised was in his possession. This, of course, came rather as a bomb-shell into Bianco's camp, and reduced him at once to a condition in which any terms of compromise would be acceptable, in preference to exposure and imprisonment.

Matters having arrived at this point, Laforcade proposed terms upon which he was willing to come to an understanding with the Spaniard. These were, briefly, that Bianco should continue his system of plunder, on condition that he handed over to his fellow-cheat one-half of the proceeds. These terms were agreed to, and upon that basis of settlement the agreement was entered into.

For some time after this all went well with the two swindlers. Laforcade established himself in luxury, and gave his days to pleasure. Bianco ran all the risk; the other had nothing to do but sit at home and receive his share of the profits. It is true he could keep no check upon his associate, to see that he divided the spoil equitably; but, holding the sword of Damocles over him, he could always threaten him with exposure if the profits were not sufficiently great.

At length, however, Bianco began to tire of the arrangement, which perhaps was only natural. Besides, the supply of marked cards was beginning to run short, and could not be depended upon much longer. This being so, the prime mover of the plot having won as much as he possibly could, promptly vacated the scene of his exploits.

The unfortunate Laforcade thus found himself, as the Americans say, 'left.' The prospect was not altogether a pleasant one for him. He had acquired expensive tastes which he might no longer be enabled to indulge; he had accustomed himself to luxuries he could no longer hope to enjoy. He had not the skill of the departed Bianco; yet, nevertheless, he was compelled to (metaphorically) roll up his sleeves and work for his living. Things were not so bad as they might have been. There was still a good number of falsified cards in use; so he determined to make the best possible use of his opportunities while they remained.

He therefore set to work with ardour, and success largely attended his efforts. At last, however, the crash came. He was detected in cheating, and the whole secret of the marked cards was brought to light.

Even in this unfortunate predicament Laforcade's good-fortune, strange to say, did not desert him. He was taken before the Tribunal, tried, and acquitted. Absolutely nothing could be proved against him. It is true the cards were marked, but then, so were nearly all the others in Havana. Laforcade did not mark them, as was proved in the evidence. He did not import them. To all intents and purposes he had nothing to do with them whatever. It could not even be proved that he knew of the cards being marked at all. Thus the case against him broke down utterly, and he got off scot free. It is, nevertheless, presumable that he did not long remain in that part of the world. As to what became of Bianco, nothing is known. Possibly his record concluded with the familiar words 'lived happily ever after'; but most probably not. The end of such men is seldom a happy one. The recital of the above-mentioned circumstances will serve to accentuate the contention that it is impossible wholly to guard against cheating. Here was a case in which the utmost caution was observed, in order to exclude cheats and impostors from a club; and yet it is seen that, within a very short time, two men of the sharp persuasion contrived to effect an entrance. If this is possible in the case of a club, where there is not only a committee to investigate the bona fides of every applicant for membership, but also a large body of members presumably alive to their own interests who have to be satisfied of the fitness of the candidates for election, what chance has a mere private individual of protecting himself against the sharp and his insidious ways? Those two men, Bianco and Laforcade, must have had friends among the inhabitants of Havana, friends who would have been horrified to know the real character of those whose intimacy they found so agreeable. Among the dupes of those two adventurers there must have been some who would have resented bitterly any aspersion of the honesty of their associates. We have seen the return they gained for their friendship, and what has happened once may happen again.

There is only one course to pursue of which it can be said that it is absolutely safe. It is an extremely objectionable one, no doubt; but we are speaking, just now, of absolute safety. There is nothing for it but to suspect your best friend, if he is a gambler. The desire for gain affects equally the high and the low. The instinct of theft is rife alike in rich and poor. To use a colloquialism, all are tarred with the same brush. The only difference is that what is called stealing in the poor starving wretch who takes a loaf, to save the parish the expense of a funeral, becomes, in the case of his more fortunate and richer fellow-sinner, merely a little intellectual peculiarity, which is dignified with the name of kleptomania. The poor man envies the rich man his wealth; the rich man envies the poor man his solitary ewe lamb. Instances of this kind have never been wanting at any time in the world's history, and even in matters of everyday life; but once a man becomes a gambler, there is every prospect that his desire for gain will eventually overmaster all the finer feelings of his nature. You doubt it? Well, search the columns of your newspaper, and every day you shall find at least one case where some foolish fellow has stolen property, or money, entrusted to his care, and has devoted the proceeds of his theft to gambling purposes. There is every reason in the world for suspecting anyone of dishonesty who is found to have taken to gambling. If it is not so, then all history lies, and past experience counts for nothing.

Closely allied to the subject of conspiracy is that of the maintenance of places in which gambling is systematically carried on, in defiance of the law, and in spite of the utmost watchfulness of the police. It is true that one of the most familiar head-lines upon the newspaper placards is: 'Raid on a Club! The accused at Bow Street.' Every week our attention is attracted by some announcement of that kind, made in letters six inches high. But we hardly ever give the matter a second thought; the whole thing is too common an occurrence. Yet not one tithe of these gambling-dens is ferreted out. Crushed here to-day, they spring up there to-morrow. They are perennial. Like the phoenix, they arise from their own ashes—but under another name. And where the players are to be found, there will the sharps be gathered together. That is a thing which goes without saying, and is open to no manner of doubt.

In these cases, of course, both sharps and flats are drawn together by one common bond of union—that of defeating the aim of the law for the suppression of gaming-houses. The dupe merely sees in the efforts of the Government to protect him from the consequences of his folly an unwarrantable interference with the liberty of the subject. Therefore, he conspires with the sharp to run counter to the law, and thus plays right into the hands of his natural enemy. That he suffers in consequence is no one's fault but his own; unfortunately, it is not he alone who suffers. Those who are nearest, and should be dearest, to him are those who suffer most. The devices resorted to by the occupants of clandestine gaming-houses in order to conceal all traces of the appliances used for the purpose of gambling would fill many volumes in their description, but as they do not form part and parcel of our subject we cannot enter into an account of them. Probably one of the most ingenious ideas ever conceived for the immediate removal of all signs of gaming apparatus in the event of a police raid, was that which was actually utilised at a so-called club a good many years ago. The plan was briefly this. Upon the fire in the card-room a large kettle of water was kept constantly boiling, ostensibly for the purpose of diluting the ardent liquors imbibed by the members. The whole of the gaming utensils, dice-boxes and everything else, were made of one of the alloys known as fusible metals, which melt at a lower temperature than boiling water. An alloy of bismuth, tin, lead and cadmium can be made to melt at a far lower temperature than that of boiling water. In the event of a raid being made upon the club, then, the whole of the appliances were put into the kettle, where they at once melted, and even though any one looked in the kettle during the search there was nothing to be seen.

It is in places of this kind where collusion and conspiracy are most rampant. Those who have the ability to devise methods of cheating the police may well be supposed to have sufficient ingenuity to cheat the players. Those who must gamble, therefore, should be very wary when they entrust themselves and their money to the tender mercies of the society encountered at such resorts. With this word of caution we will bring the present chapter to a conclusion.