The only nonchalant man of the lot was he who had actually used the weapon.  For Ronicky Doone stood with his shoulders propped against the wall, his hands clasped lightly behind him.  For all that, it was plain that he was not unarmed.  A certain calm insolence about his expression told Frederic Fernand that the teeth of the dragon were not drawn.

“Gents,” he was saying, in his mild voice, while his eyes ran restlessly from face to face, “I sure do hate to bust up a nice little party like this one has been, but I figure them cards are stacked.  I got a pile of reasons for knowing, and I want somebody to look over them cards—­somebody that knows stacked cards when he sees ’em.  Mostly it ain’t hard to get onto the order of them being run up.  I’ll leave it, gents, to the man that runs this dump.”

And, leaning across the table, he pushed the pack straight to Frederic Fernand.  The latter set his teeth.  It was very cunningly done to trap him.  If he said the cards were straight they might be examined afterward; and, if he were discovered in a lie, it would mean more than the loss of McKeever—­it would mean the ruin of everything.  Did he dare take the chance?  Must he give up McKeever?  The work of years of careful education had been squandered on McKeever.

Fernand looked up, and his eyes rested on the calm face of Ronicky Doone.  Why had he never met a man like that before?  There was an assistant!  There was a fellow with steel-cold nerve—­worth a thousand trained McKeevers!  Then he glanced at the wounded man, cowering and bunched in his chair.  At that moment the gambler made up his mind to play the game in the big way and pocket his losses.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said sadly, placing the cards back on the edge of the table, “I am sorry to say that Mr. Doone is right.  The pack has been run up.  There it is for any of you to examine it.  I don’t pretend to understand.  Most of you know that McKeever has been with me for years.  Needless to say, he will be with me no more.”  And, turning on his heel, the old fellow walked slowly away, his hands clasped behind him, his head bowed.

And the crowd poured after him to shake his hand and tell him of their unshakable confidence in his honesty.  McKeever was ruined, but the house of Frederic Fernand was more firmly established than ever, after the trial of the night.

Chapter Twenty

Trapped!

“Get the money,” said Ronicky to Jerry Smith.

“There it is!”

He pointed to the drawer, where McKeever, as banker, had kept the money.  The wounded man in the meantime had disappeared.

“How much is ours?” asked Jerry Smith.

“All you find there,” answered Ronicky calmly.

“But there’s a big bunch—­large bills, too.  McKeever was loaded for bear.”

“He loses—­the house loses it.  Out in my country, Jerry, that wouldn’t be half of what the house would lose for a little trick like what’s been played on us tonight.  Not the half of what the house would lose, I tell you!  He had us trimmed, Jerry, and out West we’d wreck this joint from head to heels.”