playing for the
first time for what he felt were important stakes in the eyes of
Fernand, followed too closely. Stacking the cards, with the adeptness
which years of practice had given to him, he never raised the amount of
his opponent's hand beyond its own order. A pair was beaten by a pair,
three of a kind was simply beaten by three of a kind of a higher order;
and, when a full house was permitted by his expert dealing to appear to
excite the other gamblers, he himself indulged in no more than a
superior grade of three of a kind.

Half a dozen times these coincidences happened without calling for any
distrust on the part of Ronicky Doone, but eventually he began to think.
Steady training enabled his eyes to do what the eyes of the ordinary man
could not achieve, and, while to Jerry Smith all that happened in the
deals of McKeever was the height of correctness, Ronicky Doone, at the
seventh deal, awakened to the fact that something was wrong.

He hardly dared to allow himself to think of anything for a time, but
waited and watched, hoping against hope that Jerry Smith himself would
discover the fraud which was being perpetrated on them. But Jerry Smith
maintained a bland interest in the game. He had won between two and
three hundred, and these winnings had been allowed by McKeever to
accumulate in little runs, here and there. For nothing encourages a
gambler toward reckless betting so much as a few series of high hands.
He then begins to believe that he can tell, by some mysterious feeling
inside, that one good hand presages another. Jerry Smith had not been
brought to the point where he was willing to plunge, but he was very
close to it.

McKeever was gathering the youngster in the hollow of his hand, and
Ronicky Doone, fully awake and aware of all that was happening, felt a
gathering rage accumulate in him. There was something doubly horrible in
this cheating in this place. Ronicky set his teeth and watched. Plainly
he was the chosen victim. The winnings of Jerry Smith were carefully
balanced against the losses of Ronicky Doone. Hatred for this
smooth-faced McKeever was waxing in him, and hatred in Ronicky Doone
meant battle.

An interruption came to him from the side. It came in the form of a
brief rustling of silk, like the stir of wind, and then Ruth Tolliver's
coppery hair and green-blue eyes were before him--Ruth Tolliver in an
evening gown and wonderful to look at. Ronicky Doone indulged himself
with star