of mind which his features
masked.

Now it was Lablache's deal. "Lord" Bill concentrated his attention upon
the dealer. The money-lender was left-handed. He held the pack in his
right, and, in dealing, he was slow and slightly clumsy. The object of
Bunning-Ford's attention quickly became apparent. Each card as it left
the pack was passed over the burnished silver of the dealer's memorandum
pad. It was smartly done, and Lablache was assisted by the fact that the
piece of metal was inclined towards him. There was no necessity to look
down deliberately to see the reflection of each card as it passed on its
way to its recipient, a glance--just the glance necessary when dealing
cards--and the money-lender, by a slight effort of memory, knew every
hand that was out. Lablache was cheating.

To say that "Lord" Bill was astonished would be wrong. He was not. He
had long suspected it. The steady run of luck which Lablache had
persisted in was too phenomenal. It was enough to set the densest
thinking. Now everything was plain. Standing where he was, Bill had
almost been able to read the index numerals himself. He gave no sign of
his discovery. Apparently the matter was of no consequence to him, for
he merely lit a fresh cigarette and walked towards the door. He turned
as he was about to pass out.

"What time shall I tell Jacky to expect you home, John?" he said
quietly, addressing the old rancher.

Lablache looked up with a swift, malevolent glance, but he said nothing.
Old John turned a drawn face to the speaker.

"Supper, I guess," he said in a thick voice, husky from long silence.
"And tell Smith to send me in a bottle of 'white seal' and some
glasses."

"Right you are." Then "Lord" Bill passed out. "Poker without whisky is
bad," he muttered as he made his way back to the bar, "but poker and
whisky together can only be the beginning of the end. We'll see. Poor
old John!"

CHAPTER VII

ACROSS THE GREAT MUSKEG

It was on the stroke of four o'clock when Bunning-Ford left the saloon.
He had said that he would be at the ranch at four, and usually he liked
to be punctual. He was late now, however, and made no effort to make up
time. Instead, he allowed his horse to walk leisurely in the direction
of the Allandales' house. He wanted time to think before he again met
Jacky.

He was confronted by a problem which taxed all his wit. It was perhaps a
fortunate thing that his was not a hasty temperament. He well knew