cards still gripped in their fingers, as they leaned breathlessly
forward to observe more closely the play. The Judge sat upright, his
attitude strained, staring down at his hand, his face white, and eyes
burning feverishly. That he had been drinking heavily was evident, but
Kirby fronted him in apparent cold indifference, his feelings
completely masked, with the cards he held bunched in his hands, and
entirely concealed from view. No twitch of an eyelash, no quiver of a
muscle revealed his knowledge; his expressionless face might have been
carved out of stone. Between the two rested a stack of gold coin, a
roll of crushed bills, and a legal paper of some kind, the exact nature
of which I could not determine. I leaned forward, but could only
perceive that it bore the official stamp of some recording office--a
deed, perhaps, to some of the remaining acres of Beaucaire. It was
evident that a fortune already rested on that table, awaiting the flip
of a card. The silence, the breathless attention, convinced me that
the crisis had been reached--it was the Judge's move; he must cover the
last bet, or throw down his hand a loser.

Perspiration beaded his forehead, and he crunched the cards savagely in
his hands. His glance swept past the crowd, as though he saw nothing
of their faces.

"Another drink, Sam," he called, the voice trembling. He tossed down
the glass of liquor as though it were so much water, but made no other
effort to speak. You could hear the strained breathing of the men.

"Well," said Kirby sneeringly, his cold gaze surveying his motionless
opponent. "You seem to be taking your time. Do you cover my bet?"

Someone laughed nervously, and a voice sang out over my shoulder, "You