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.

Chapter Nineteen

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.