ave your revenge. Doubtless you would like some of
these papers back," he said, as he swept them leisurely into his
pocket-book, and then sugar-bagging a cigarette paper he poured a few
grains of granulated tobacco into it.

"Yes, I daresay I shall relieve you of some later on," replied Bill,
quietly. Then he turned to the other table and stood watching the play.

He glanced anxiously at the bare table in front of the old rancher. Even
Dr. Abbot was well stocked with slips of paper. Then his gaze fell upon
the money-lender, behind whose huge back he was standing.

He moved slightly to one side. It is an unwritten law amongst poker
players, in a public place in the west of the American continent, that
no onlooker should stand immediately behind any player. He moved to
Lablache's right. The money-lender was dealing. "Lord" Bill lit a
cigarette.

The cards were dealt round. Then the draw. Then Lablache laid the pack
down. Bunning-Ford had noted these things mechanically. Then something
caught his attention. It was his very indifference which caused his
sudden attention. Had he been following the game with his usual keenness
he would only have been thinking of the betting.

Lablache was writing upon his memo, pad, which was a gorgeous effort in
silver mounting. One of those oblong blocks with a broad band of
burnished silver at the binding of the perforated leaves. He knew that
this was the pad the money-lender always used; anyway, it was similar in
all respects to his usual memorandum pads.

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