How it was his attention had become fixed upon that pad he could not have told, but now an inspiration came to him.  His face remained unchanged in its expression, but those lazy eyes of his gleamed wickedly as he leisurely puffed at his cigarette.

The bet went round.  Lablache raised and raised again.  Eventually the rancher “saw” him.  The other took the pool.  No word was spoken, but “Lord” Bill gritted his teeth and viciously pitched his cigarette to the other end of the room.

During the next two deals he allowed his attention to wander.  Lablache dropped out one hand, and, in the next, he merely “filled” his “ante” and allowed the doctor to take in the pool.  John Allandale’s face was serious.  The nervous twitching of the cheek was still, but the drawn lines around his mouth were in no way hidden by his gray mustache, nor did the eager light which burned luridly in his eyes for one moment deceive the onlooker as to the anxiety of mind which his features masked.

Now it was Lablache’s deal.  “Lord” Bill concentrated his attention upon the dealer.  The money-lender was left-handed.  He held the pack in his right, and, in dealing, he was slow and slightly clumsy.  The object of Bunning-Ford’s attention quickly became apparent.  Each card as it left the pack was passed over the burnished silver of the dealer’s memorandum pad.  It was smartly done, and Lablache was assisted by the fact that the piece of metal was inclined towards him.  There was no necessity to look down deliberately to see the reflection of each card as it passed on its way to its recipient, a glance—­just the glance necessary when dealing cards—­and the money-lender, by a slight effort of memory, knew every hand that was out.  Lablache was cheating.

To say that “Lord” Bill was astonished would be wrong.  He was not.  He had long suspected it.  The steady run of luck which Lablache had persisted in was too phenomenal.  It was enough to set the densest thinking.  Now everything was plain.  Standing where he was, Bill had almost been able to read the index numerals himself.  He gave no sign of his discovery.  Apparently the matter was of no consequence to him, for he merely lit a fresh cigarette and walked towards the door.  He turned as he was about to pass out.

“What time shall I tell Jacky to expect you home, John?” he said quietly, addressing the old rancher.

Lablache looked up with a swift, malevolent glance, but he said nothing.  Old John turned a drawn face to the speaker.

“Supper, I guess,” he said in a thick voice, husky from long silence.  “And tell Smith to send me in a bottle of ‘white seal’ and some glasses.”

“Right you are.”  Then “Lord” Bill passed out.  “Poker without whisky is bad,” he muttered as he made his way back to the bar, “but poker and whisky together can only be the beginning of the end.  We’ll see.  Poor old John!”

CHAPTER VII