o know about it. The Queen was
the recipient of several low bows and a few drunken curtsies, and,
when they reached the front door at last, the doorman said in a most
respectful tone: "Good evening, Your Majesty."

The Queen positively beamed at him. So, to his own great surprise, did
Sir Kenneth Malone.

Outside, it was about four in the morning. They climbed into the car
and headed back toward the hotel.

Malone was the first to speak. "How did you know that was a Jack of
clubs?" he said in a strangled sort of voice.

The little old lady said calmly: "He was cheating."

"The dealer?" Malone asked. The little old lady nodded. "In _your_
favor?"

"He couldn't have been cheating," Boyd said at the same instant. "Why
would he want to give you all that money?"

The little old lady shook her head. "He didn't want to give it to me,"
she said. "He wanted to give it to the man in the cowboy's suit. His
name is Elliott, by the way--Bernard L. Elliott. And he comes from
Weehawken. But he pretends to be a Westerner so nobody will be
suspicious of him. He and the dealer are in cahoots--isn't that the
word?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," Boyd said. "That's the word." His tone was awed
and respectful, and the little old lady gave a nod and became Queen
Elizabeth I once more.

"Well," she said, "the dealer and Mr. Elliott were in cahoots, and the
dealer wanted to give the hand to Mr. Elliott. But he made a mistake,
and dealt the Jack of clubs to me. I watched him, and, of course, I
knew what he was thinking. The rest was easy."

"My God," Malone said. "Easy." Barbara said: "Did she win?"

"She won," Malone said with what he felt was positively magnificent
understatement.

"Good," Barbara said, and lost interest at once.

Malone had seen the lights of a car in the rear-view mirror a few
minutes before. When he looked now, the lights were still there--but
the fact just didn't register until, a couple of blocks later, the car
began to pull around them on the left. It was a Buick, while Boyd's
was a new Lincoln, but the edge wasn't too apparent yet.

Malone spotted the gun barrel protruding from the Buick and yelled
just before the first shot went off.

Boyd, at the wheel, didn't even bother to look. His reflexes took over
and he slammed his foot down on the brake. The specially-built FBI
Lincoln slowed down instantly. The shotgun blast splattered the glass
of the curved windshield all over--but none of it came into the car