“By blazes!  I have the equivalent!” shouted Bloodgood.

Into an inner pocket he plunged.  He brought out a velvet jewel box.  When this was opened, there was a cry of wonder, for a magnificent diamond necklace was revealed.

“That is worth ten thousand dollars!” declared Bloodgood, “and I’ll bet as long as it lasts!”

Mr. Slush held out his hand.

“Please let me examine it,” he said.

He took a good look at it.

“Ees it all right, sair?” asked the Frenchman, eagerly.

“It is,” said Mr. Slush, “and I will take charge of it!”

He thrust the case into his pocket, rose quickly, stepped past Montfort and clapped a hand on Bloodgood’s shoulder.

“I arrest you, Benton Hammersley, for the Clayton diamond robbery!” he said.  “It is useless for you to resist, for you are on shipboard, and you cannot escape.”

Bloodgood uttered a fierce curse,

“Who in the fiend’s name are you?” he snarled, turning pale.

And “Mr. Slush” answered: 

“Dan Badger, of the New York detective force!  Permit me to present you with a pair of handsome bracelets, Mr. Hammersley.”

Click—­the trapped diamond thief was ironed!

CHAPTER XIII.

Fire in the hold.

Everyone except the detective himself seemed astounded.  The clever officer, who had played his part so well, was as cool as ice.

The Frenchman cried: 

“But zis pot—­eet ees not settailed to whom eet belong yet!”

The detective stepped back to his chair.

“The easiest way to settle that is by a show-down,” he said.  “Under the circumstances, further bettering is out of the question.”

“And I rather think I am in the showdown,” choked out the prisoner.  “I’ll need this money to defend myself when I come to trial.”

“You shall have it,” assured Dan Badger—­“if you win it.”

“Well, I think I’ll win it,” said the ironed man, spreading out his hand.  “I have four aces, and you can’t beat that.”

“Oh, my dear saire!” cried the Frenchman.  “Zat ees pretty gude, but I belief zis ees battaire.  How you like zat for a straight flush?”

He lay his cards on the table, and he had the two, three, four, five and six of hearts.

There was a shout of astonishment.

“Ze pot ees mine!” exultantly cried the Frenchman.

“Stop!” rang out Frank Merriwell’s clear voice.  “That pot is not yours!”

Everyone looked at Merry.

“He is using a table ‘hold-out!’” accused Frank, pointing straight at Montfort.  “I saw him make the shift.  The five cards that really belong in his hands will be found in the hold-out under the table!”

There was dead silence.  The Frenchman turned sallow.

“It makes no difference,” said the quiet voice of the detective, breaking the silence.  “I have a higher straight flush of clubs here.  Mine runs up to the eight spot, and so I win the pot.”