Part 17 (1/2)

”You look as if you'd been given something pretty good,” said Captain Wigmore.

”Not half bad,” answered the Englishman quietly.

”On the side,” said Nash, ”I bet you a dollar, even, that I hold the best hand--pat.”

Rayton shook his head. ”Not this time, Nash, if you don't mind,” he replied quietly. ”I want to take cards.”

”That's easily managed,” persisted the doctor. ”I want cards, too; but we can lay our discards aside and show them later. Come, be a sport!

Thought all Englishmen were sports.”

Rayton hesitated, flus.h.i.+ng.

”Right-o!” he said. ”But I'll not be what you call a sport on one dollar! Twenty-five is my bet, Nash--even money. Come! How does that suit you?”

”It doesn't suit me at all--thanks just the same,” returned the doctor sullenly.

”Perhaps you'll leave the English sporting instinct alone, after this,”

said Mr. Banks.

”For Heaven's sake, get on with the game!” cried old Wigmore.

All ”came in” and took cards. Rayton asked for two, and though he did not bet, he kept the five cards in his hand. Wigmore took the money, this time.

”Supper,” said the Englishman quickly, and gathered up all the cards with swift hands, his own included. He entered the kitchen quickly, and they heard him clattering about the stove.

After supper the game went on, with another fresh pack of cards. They had been playing for about a quarter of an hour when Captain Wigmore suddenly began to chuckle.

”What's the matter with you? Have you laid an egg?” asked Nash insolently.

For a second the old man's face was twisted with white-hot rage and his eyes fairly flamed upon the doctor. He trembled--then smiled calmly.

”Some one has, evidently,” he said, and spread his five cards face-up upon the table. He pointed at the ace of clubs with a lean finger. It was marked with two little red crosses!

”You!” cried Jim Harley, staring incredulously from the card to the old man and back again to the card.

Nash and David Marsh began to laugh uproariously. Goodine and Rayton looked bewildered, and Banks scratched his head reflectively.

”That beats the band!” cried Nash, at last. ”Jim, the spook who works that family curse of yours must be going daffy. Good for you, captain!

There's life in the old dog yet! No wonder you are dressed up so stylish.”

He leaned halfway across the table, guffawing in the old man's face.

Wigmore's hands darted forward. One gripped Nash's necktie, and the other darted into an inner pocket of his coat.

”Here! Drop it, you old devil!” cried the doctor.

Captain Wigmore sat back in his chair, laughing softly. He held something in his hand--something that they had all seen him draw from Nash's pocket.