He leisurely saw the thousand, and raised another five hundred.  Lablache allowed his fishy eyes to flash in the direction of his opponent.  A moment after he raised another thousand.  The gamble was becoming interesting.  The two onlookers were consumed with the lust of play.  They forgot that in the result they would not be participants.  Old John’s face lost something of its impassivity as he in turn raised to the limit.  Lablache eased his great body in his chair.  His little mouth was very tightly clenched.  His breathing, at times stertorous, was like the breathing of an asthmatical pig.  He saw, and again raised to the limit.  There was now over twelve thousand dollars in the pool.

It was old John’s turn.  The doctor and “Lord” Bill waited anxiously.  The old rancher was reputed very wealthy.  They felt assured that he would not back down after having gone so far.  In their hearts they both wished to see him relieve Lablache of a lot of money.

They need have had no fears.  Whatever his faults “Poker” John was a “dead game sport.”  He dashed a slip of paper into the pool.  The keen eyes watching read “four thousand dollars” scrawled upon it.  He had again raised to the limit.  It was now Lablache’s turn to accept or refuse the challenge.  The onlookers were not so sure of the money-lender.  Would he accept or not?

A curious thought was in the mind of that monument of flesh.  He knew for certain that he held the winning cards.  How he knew it would be impossible to say.  And yet he hesitated.  Perhaps he knew the limits of John Allandale’s resources, perhaps he felt, for the present, there was sufficient in the pool; perhaps, even, he had ulterior motives.  Whatever the cause, as he passed a slip of paper into the pool merely seeing his opponent, his face gave no outward sign of what was passing in the brain behind it.

Old John laid down his hand.

“Four nines,” he said quietly.

“Not good enough,” retorted Lablache; “four kings.”  And he spread his cards out upon the table before him and swept up the pile of papers which represented his win.

A sigh, as of relief to pent-up feelings, escaped the two men who had watched the gamble.  Old John said not a word and his face betrayed no thought or regret that might have been in his mind at the loss of such a large amount of money.  He merely glanced over at the money-lender.

“Your deal, Lablache,” he said quietly.

Lablache took the cards and a fresh deal went round.  Now the game became one-sided.  With that one large pull the money-lender’s luck seemed to have set in.  Seemingly he could do no wrong.  If he drew to “three of a kind,” he invariably filled; if to a “pair,” he generally secured a third; once, indeed, he drew to jack, queen, king of a suit and completed a “royal flush.”  His luck was phenomenal.  The other men’s luck seemed “dead out.”  Bunning-Ford and the doctor could get no hands at all, and thus they were saved heavy losses.  Occasionally, even, the doctor raked in a few “antes.”  But John Allandale could do nothing right.  He was always drawing tolerable cards—­just good enough to lose with.  Until, by the time daylight came, he had lost so heavily that his two friends were eagerly seeking an excuse to break up the game.