“Another table and dealer wasted,” declared M. Fernand.  “Smith—­and, by heavens, he’s brought some friend of his with him!”

“Shall I see if I can turn them away without playing?” asked McKeever.

“No, not yet.  Smith is a friend of John Mark.  Don’t forget that.  Never forget, McKeever, that the friends of John Mark must be treated with gloves—­always!”

“Very good,” replied McKeever, like a pupil memorizing in class.

“I’ll see how far I can go with them,” went on M. Fernand.  He went straight to the telephone and rang John Mark.

“How far should I go with them?” he asked, after he had explained that Smith had just come in.

“Is there someone with him?” asked John Mark eagerly.

“A young chap about the same age—­very brown.”

“That’s the man I want!”

“The man you want?”

“Fernand,” said Mark, without explaining, “those youngsters have gone out there to make some money at your expense.”

M. Fernand growled.  “I wish you’d stop using me as a bank, Mark,” he complained.  “Besides, it costs a good deal.”

“I pay you a tolerable interest, I believe,” said John Mark coldly.

“Of course, of course!  Well”—­this in a manner of great resignation—­“how much shall I let them take away?”

“Bleed them both to death if you want.  Let them play on credit.  Go as far as you like.”

“Very well,” said Fernand, “but—­”

“I may be out there later, myself.  Good-by.”

The face of Frederic Fernand was dark when he went back to McKeever.  “What do you think of the fellow with Jerry Smith?” he asked.

“Of him?” asked McKeever, fencing desperately for another moment, as he stared at Ronicky Doone.

The latter was idling at a table close to the wall, running his hands through a litter of magazines.  After a moment he raised his head suddenly and glanced across the room at McKeever.  The shock of meeting glances is almost a physical thing.  And the bold, calm eyes of Ronicky Doone lingered on McKeever and seemed to judge him and file that judgment away.

McKeever threw himself upon the wings of his imagination.  There was something about this fellow, or his opinion would not have been asked.  What was it?

“Well?” asked Frederic Fernand peevishly.  “What do you think of him?”

“I think,” said the other casually, “that he’s probably a Western gunman, with a record as long as my arm.”

“You think that?” asked the fat man.  “Well, I’ve an idea that you think right.  There’s something about him that suggests action.  The way he looks about, so slowly—­that is the way a fearless man is apt to look, you know.  Do you think you can sit at the table with Ronicky Doone, as they call him, and Jerry Smith and win from them this evening?”

“With any sort of luck—­”

“Leave the luck out of it.  John Mark has made a special request.  Tonight, McKeever, it’s going to be your work to make the luck come to you.  Do you think you can?”