A log blazed in the library fireplace, staining with warm, rich shadows
the square-paneled ceiling of oak and the huge war-beaten slab of
table-wood about which the men were gathered, both feudal relics
brought to the New York home of Carl Granberry's uncle from a ruined
castle in Spain.

"If you've gone through all your money," resumed Starrett offensively,
"I'd marry Diane."

"_Miss_ Westfall!" purred Carl correctively. "You've forgotten,
Starrett, my cousin's name is Westfall, _Miss_ Westfall."

"Diane!" persisted Starrett.

With one of his incomprehensible whims, Carl swept the cards into a
disorderly heap and shrugged.

"I'm through," he said curtly. "Wherry, take the pot. You need it."

"Damned irregular!" snapped Starrett sourly.

"So?" said Carl, and stared the recalcitrant into sullen silence.
Rising, he crossed to the fire, his dark, impudent eyes lingering
reflectively upon Starrett's moody face.

"Starrett," he mused, "I wonder what I ever saw in you anyway. You're
infernally shallow and alcoholic and your notions of poker are as
distorted as your morals. I'm not sure but I think you'd cheat." He
shrugged wearily. "Get out," he said collectively. "I'm tired."