"dead game sport." He dashed a slip of paper into the pool. The keen
eyes watching read "four thousand dollars" scrawled upon it. He had
again raised to the limit. It was now Lablache's turn to accept or
refuse the challenge. The onlookers were not so sure of the
money-lender. Would he accept or not?

A curious thought was in the mind of that monument of flesh. He knew for
certain that he held the winning cards. How he knew it would be
impossible to say. And yet he hesitated. Perhaps he knew the limits of
John Allandale's resources, perhaps he felt, for the present, there was
sufficient in the pool; perhaps, even, he had ulterior motives. Whatever
the cause, as he passed a slip of paper into the pool merely seeing his
opponent, his face gave no outward sign of what was passing in the brain
behind it.

Old John laid down his hand.

"Four nines," he said quietly.

"Not good enough," retorted Lablache; "four kings." And he spread his
cards out upon the table before him and swept up the pile of papers
which represented his win.

A sigh, as of relief to pent-up feelings, escaped the two men who had
watched the gamble. Old John said not a word and his face betrayed no
thought or regret that might have been in his mind at the loss of such a
large amount of money. He merely glanced over at the money-lender.

"Your deal, Lablache," he said quietly.