luck seesawed from one to the other
until both the other players returned. They did not come alone. Two
more black-frocked, black-sombreroed, cold-faced individuals accompanied
them.

"May we sit in?" they asked.

"With pleasure," replied Hough.

Durade frowned and the glow left his face. Though the luck was still
with him, it was evident that he did not favor added numbers. Yet the
man's sensitiveness to any change immediately manifested itself when he
won the first large stake. His radiance returned and also his vanity.

Hough interrupted the game by striking the table with his hand. The
sound seemed hard, metallic, yet his hand was empty. Any attentive
observer would have become aware that Hough had a gun up his sleeve. But
Durade did not catch the significance.

"I object to that man leaning over the table," said Hough, and he
pointed to the lounging Fresno.

"Thet so?" leered the ugly giant. He looked bold and vicious.

"Do not address me," ordered Hough.

Fresno backed away silently from the cold-faced gambler.

"Don't mind him, Hough," protested Durade. "They're all excited. Big
stakes always work them up."

"Send them out so we can play without annoyance."

"No," replied Durade, sharply. "They can watch the game."

"Ancliffe," called Hough, just as sharply, "fetch some of my friends to
watch this game. Don't forget Neale and Larry King."

Allie, who was watching and listening with strained faculties, nearly
fainted at the sudden mention of her lover Neale and her friend Larry.
She went blind for a second; the room turned round and round; she
thought her heart would burst with joy.

The Englishman hurried out.

Durade looked up with a passionate and wolfish swiftness.

"What do you mean?"

"I want some of my friends to watch the game," replied Hough.

"But I don't allow that red-headed cowboy gun-fighter to come into my
place."

"That is regrettable, for you will make an exception this time...
Durade, you don't stand well in Benton. I do."

The Spaniard's eyes glittered. "You insinuate--SENOR--"

"Yes," interposed Hough, and his cold, deliberate voice dominated the
explosive Durade. "Do you remember a gambler named Jones?... He was
shot in this room... If _I_ should happen to be shot here--in the same
way--you and your gang would not last long in Benton!"

Durade's face grew livid with rage and fear. And in that moment the mask
was off. The nature of the Spaniard stood forth. Another