“Well, if you gents’ll excuse me I’ll go back to bed.  Old Joe’ll look after you,” she said abruptly.  “Good-night to you all.”

She disappeared up the staircase.  The men remained silent for a moment or two.  They were getting drowsy.  Suddenly Lablache set his glass down and looked at his watch.

“Four o’clock, gentlemen.  I suppose, Joe, there are no beds for us.”  The old farmer shook his head.  “What say, John—­Doc—­a little game until breakfast?”

John Allandale’s face lit up.  His sobriquet was no idle One.  He lived for poker—­he loved it.  And Lablache knew it.  Old John turned to the others.  His right cheek twitched as he waited the decision.  “Doc” Abbot smiled approval; “Lord” Bill shrugged indifferently.  The old gambler rose to his feet.

“That’s all right, then.  The kitchen table is good enough for us.  Come along, gentlemen.”

“I’ll slide off to bed, I guess,” said Norton, thankful to escape a night’s vigil.  “Good-night, gentlemen.”

Then the remaining four sat down to play.

The far-reaching consequences of that game were undreamt of by the players, except, perhaps, by Lablache.  His story of the reason of his return to Norton’s farm was only partially true.  He had returned in the hopes of this meeting; he had anticipated this game.

CHAPTER III

A BIG GAME OF POKER

“What about cards?” said Lablache, as the four men sat down to the table.

“Doc will oblige, no doubt,” Bunning-Ford replied quietly.  “He generally carries the ‘pernicious pasteboards’ about with him.”

“The man who travels in the West without them,” said Dr. Abbot, producing a couple of new packs from his pocket, “either does not know his country or is a victim of superstition.”

No one seemed inclined to refuse the doctor’s statement, or enter into a discussion upon the matter.  Instead, each drew out a small memorandum block and pencil—­a sure indication of a “big game.”

“Limit?” asked the doctor.

Lablache shrugged his shoulders, affectionately shuffling the cards the while.  He kept his eyes averted.

“What do the others say?”

There was a challenge in Lablache’s tone.  Bunning-Ford flushed slightly at the cheek-bones.  That peculiar pursing was at his lips.

“Anything goes with me.  The higher the game the greater the excitement,” he said, shooting a keen glance at the pasty face of the money-lender.

Old John was irritated.  His ruddy face gleamed in the light of the lamp.  The nervous twitching of the cheek indicated his frame of mind.  Lablache smiled to himself behind the wood expression of his face.

“Twenty dollars call for fifty.  Limit the bet to three thousand dollars.  Is that big enough for you, Lablache?  Let us have a regulation ‘ante.’  No ‘straddling.’”

There was a moment’s silence.  “Poker” John had proposed the biggest game they had yet played.  He would have suggested no limit, but this he knew would be all in favor of Lablache, whose resources were vast.