A faint smile began to dawn on the face of McKeever.
Never in his life had he heard news so sweet to his
ear. It meant, in brief, that he was to be trusted
for the first time at real manipulation of the cards.
His trust in himself was complete. This would
be a crushing blow for Simonds.
“Mind you,” the master of the house went
on, “if you are caught at working—”
“Nonsense!” said McKeever happily.
“They can’t follow my hands.”
“This fellow Doone—I don’t
know.”
“I’ll take the chance.”
“If you’re caught I turn you out.
You hear? Are you willing to take the risk?”
“Yes,” said McKeever, very pale, but determined.
At the right moment McKeever approached Jerry and
Ronicky, dark, handsome, smoothly amiable. He
was clever enough to make no indirect effort to introduce
his topic. “I see that you gentlemen are
looking about,” he said. “Yonder
is a clear table for us. Do you agree, Mr. Smith?”
Jerry Smith nodded, and, having introduced Ronicky
Doone, the three started for the table which had been
indicated.
It was in an alcove, apart from the sweep of big rooms
which were given over to the players. It lay,
too, conveniently in range of the beat of Frederic
Fernand, as he moved slowly back and forth, over a
limited territory and stopped, here and there for
a word, here and there for a smile. He was smoothing
the way for dollars to slide out of wallets. Now
he deliberately stopped the party in their progress
to the alcove.
“I have to meet you,” he said to Ronicky.
“You remind me of a friend of my father, a young
Westerner, those many years ago. Same brown skin,
same clear eye. He was a card expert, the man
I’m thinking about. I hope you’re
not in the same class, my friend!”
Then he went on, laughing thunderously at his own
poor jest. Particularly from the back, as he
retreated, he seemed a harmless fat man, very simple,
very naive. But Ronicky Doone regarded him with
an interest both cold and keen. And, with much
the same regard, after Fernand had passed out of view,
the Westerner regarded the table at which they were
to sit.
In the alcove were three wall lights, giving an ample
illumination—too ample to suit Ronicky
Doone. For McKeever had taken the chair with the
back to the light. He made no comment, but, taking
the chair which was facing the lights, the chair which
had been pointed out to him by McKeever, he drew it
around on the far side and sat down next to the professional
gambler.
Stacked Cards
The game opened slowly. The first, second, and
third hands were won by Jerry Smith. He tucked
away his chips with a smile of satisfaction, as if
the three hands were significant of the whole progress
of the game. But Ronicky Doone pocketed his losses
without either smile or sneer. He had played
too often in games in the West which ran to huge prices.
Miners had come in with their belts loaded with dust,
eager to bet the entire sum of their winnings at once.
Ranchers, fat with the profits of a good sale of cattle,
had wagered the whole amount of it in a single evening.
As far as large losses and large gains were concerned,
Ronicky Doone was ready to handle the bets of anyone,
other than millionaires, without a smile or a wince.
