ent, in his
opponents, brought him out with a protest exacting the last item of toll
for indiscretion.

Portlaw was perhaps the sounder player, Malcourt certainly the more
brilliant; and now, for the first time since the advent of the
Tressilvains, the cards Portlaw held were good ones.

"What a nasty thing to do!" said Lady Tressilvain sharply, as her
brother's finesse went through, and with it another rubber.

"It was horrid, wasn't it, Helen? I don't know what's got into you and
Herby"; and to the latter's protest he added pleasantly: "You talk like
a bucket of ashes. Go on and deal!"

"A--what!" demanded Tressilvain angrily.

"It's an Americanism," observed his wife, surveying her cards with
masked displeasure and making it spades. "Louis, I never held such hands
in all my life," she said, displaying the meagre dummy.

"Do you good, Helen. Mustn't be too proud and haughty. No, no! Good for
you and Herby--"

"I wish you wouldn't call him Herby," snapped his sister.

"Not respectful?" inquired Malcourt, lifting his eyebrows. "Well, I'll
call him anything you like, Helen; I don't care. But make it something I
can say when ladies are present--"

Tressilvain's mink-like muzzle turned white with rage. He didn't like to
be flouted, he didn't like his cards, he didn't like to lose money. And
he had already lost a lot between luncheon and the impending dinner.

"Why the devil I continue to hold all these three-card suits I don't
know," he said savagely. "Isn't there another pack in the house?"

"There _was_" said Malcourt; and ironically condoled with him as Portlaw
accomplished a little slam in hearts.

Then Tressilvain dealt; and Malcourt's eyes never left his
brother-in-law's hands as they distributed the cards with nervous
rapidity.

"Misdeal," he said quietly.

"What?" demanded his sister in sharp protest.

"It's a misdeal," repeated Malcourt, smiling at her; and, as
Tressilvain, half the pack suspended, gazed blankly at him, Malcourt
turned and looked him squarely in the eye. The other reddened.

"Too bad," said Malcourt, with careless good-humour, "but one has to be
so careful in dealing the top card, Herby. You stumble over your own
fingers; they're too long; or perhaps it's that ring of yours."

A curious, almost ghastly glance passed involuntarily between the
Tressilvains; Portlaw, who was busy lighting a cigar, did not notice it,
but Malcourt laughed lightly and ran over the score, adding it u