coldly. "Where are
they?"

McAfee swept the discarded hand face upward, and the crowd bending
forward to look saw four aces, and a king.

"That was the Judge's hand," he declared soberly. "I saw it myself
before he called you, and told him to stay."

Kirby laughed, an ugly laugh showing his white teeth.

"The hell, you did? Thought you knew a good poker hand, I reckon.
Well, you see I knew a better one, and it strikes me I am the one to
ask questions," he sneered. "Look here, you men; I held one ace from
the shuffle. Now what I want to know is, where Beaucaire ever got his
four? Pleasant little trick of you two--only this time it failed to
work."

Beaucaire uttered one mad oath, and I endeavored to grasp him, but
missed my clutch. The force of his lurching body as he sprang forward
upturned the table, the stakes jingling to the deck, but Kirby reached
his feet in time to avoid the shock. His hand which had been hidden
shot out suddenly, the fingers grasping a revolver, but he did not
fire. Before the Judge had gone half the distance, he stopped, reeled
suddenly, clutching at his throat, and plunged sideways. His body
struck the upturned table, and McAfee and I grasped him, lowering the
stricken man gently to the floor.

CHAPTER V

KIRBY SHOWS HIS HAND

That scene, with all its surroundings, remains indelibly impressed upon
my memory. It will never fade while I live. The long, narrow, dingy
cabin of the little _Warrior_, its forward end unlighted and in shadow,
the single swinging lamp, suspended to a blackened beam above where the
table had stood, barely revealing through its smoky chimney the after
portion showing a row of stateroom doors on either side, some standing
ajar, and that crowd of excited men surging about the fallen body of
Judge Beaucaire, unable as yet to fully realize the exact nature of
what had occurred, but conscious of impending tragedy. The air was
thick and stifling with tobacco smoke, redolent of the sickening fumes
of alcohol, and noisy with questioning voices, while above every other
sound might be distinguished the sharp pulsations of the laboring
engine just beneath our feet, the deck planks trembling to the
continuous throbbing. The overturned table and chairs, the motionless
body of the fallen man, with Kirby standing erect just beyond, his face
as clear-cut under the glare of light as a cameo, the revolver yet
glistening in his extended hand, all composed a pi