“Why force me to extremities, John?” he said presently.  “If you would only be reasonable, I feel sure you would have no matter for regret.  Now, suppose I went a step further.”

“No—­no,” weakly.  There followed a pause.  John Allandale avoided the other’s eyes.  To the old man the silence of the room became intolerable.  He opened his lips to speak.  Then he closed them—­only to open them again.  “But—­but what step do you propose?  Is—­is it honest?”

“Perfectly.”  Lablache was smiling in that indulgent manner he knew so well how to assume.  “And it might appeal to you.  Pressure is a thing I hate.  Now—­suppose we leave the matter to—­to chance.”

“Chance?” The rancher questioned the other doubtfully.

“Yes—­why not?” The money-lender’s smile broadened and he leaned forward to impress his hearer the more surely.  “A little game—­a game of poker, eh?”

John Allandale shook his head.  He failed to grasp the other’s meaning.

“I don’t understand,” he said, struggling with the liquor which fogged his dull brain.

“No, of course you don’t,” easily.  “Now listen to me and I’ll tell you what I mean.”  The money-lender spoke as though addressing a wayward child.  “The stakes shall be my terms against your influence with Jacky.  If you win you keep your girl, and I cancel your mortgages; if I win I marry your girl under the conditions I have already offered.  It’s wholly an arrangement for your benefit.  All I can possibly gain is your girl.  Whichever way the game goes I must pay.  Saints alive—­but what an old fool I am!” He laughed constrainedly.  “For the sake of a pretty face I’m going to give you everything—­but there,” seriously, “I’d do more to win that sweet child for my wife.  What d’you say, John?”

There could be no doubt that Lablache meant what he said, only he might have put it differently.  Had he said that there was nothing at which he would stop to secure Jacky, it would have been more in keeping with the facts, He meant to marry the girl.  His bilious eyes watered.  There was a sensual look in them.  His heavy lips parted and closed with a sucking smack as though expressing appreciation of a tasty morsel.

John remained silent, but into his eyes had leapt a gleam which told of the lust of gaming aroused.  His look—­his whole face spoke for him.  Lablache had primed his hook with an irresistible bait.  He knew his man.

“See,” he went on, as the other remained silent, “this is the way we can arrange it.  We will play ‘Jackpots’ only.  The best seven out of thirteen.  It will be a pretty game, in which, from an outsider’s point of view, I alone can be the loser.  If I win I shall consider myself amply repaid.  If I lose—­well,” with an expressive movement of the hands, “I will take my chance—­as a sportsman should.  I love your niece, John, and will risk everything to win her.  Now, think of it.  It will be the sweetest, prettiest gamble.  And, too, think of the stake.  A fortune, John—­a fortune for you.  And for me a bare possibility of realizing my hopes.”