“What’s the trouble, Kendall?” he asked, in bantering fashion. “Can’t you get ’em down right?”
“I didn’t get those bets down right, that’s evident,” snarled Kendall bitterly.
“So I see.”
“What you don’t see, Godard, isn’t worth seeing.”
“Oh, is that so? You must be a loser, Kendall.”
“About eighteen hundred.”
“Ah, well, don’t let it bother you,” laughed Godard, a bit maliciously. “You’re not playing for your life.”
Kendall evidently did not like the interference, nor the tone in which the last remarks were made. He glanced sharply up at the rather unprepossessing face of the speaker, and retorted curtly:
“No, not for my life, Nate Godard! But I’m playing for something as dear to me as life.”
“A fortune, eh?” grinned Godard, not in the least disturbed.
“No, not a fortune,” snapped Kendall.
The dealer glanced across the table at him, still shuffling the cards for the next deal, but he said nothing.
Godard, however, could not resist voicing the thought that arose in his mind.
“Well, if you’re playing for something more dear than either life or fortune, Kendall, you’re taking infernally long chances,” said he pointedly. “Honor is something not wisely staked upon a faro layout, and if——”
In an instant Kendall was upon his feet, ghastly with passion.
“Who spoke of honor?” he cried furiously. “Do you dare imply that I——”
Clang!
The bell on the hall door had rung sharply.
It rang an immediate knell to the brief disturbance.
It brought a moment of absolute silence, in which every eye was turned swiftly toward the door.
Humpty Green, the malformation, leaped up from his chair and ran to the peek. One glance was sufficient. He closed the slide, then threw both hands above his head with a grotesque gesture of warning.
The eyes of all were upon him. His lips moved, but his voice, was silent, yet all received the mute message he conveyed.
“Hush! It’s the boss! It’s Moses Flood!”
Then he removed the heavy bar and opened the door.
Moses Flood, with face as calm as a sea of ice, gravely entered the room.
He was followed closely by two men, both of whom were in disguise.
One was the famous New York detective’s chief assistant, Chick Carter.
The other was Nick Carter, the great detective himself.
The humpback closed the heavy door and replaced the bar.
CHAPTER IV.
A FRIEND IN NEED.
Before depicting the thrilling episodes that followed the entrance of Nick Carter and Chick into Moses Flood’s gambling-house, it is necessary, in order that Nick’s conduct may be better appreciated, to revert to his meeting with Dora Royal near the rectory conservatory, and present the remainder of the interview.
That the girl had overheard all that had passed between Flood and her father, and that her discovery of the gamester’s vocation came upon her with a shock that overwhelmed and crushed her, were at once painfully apparent to Nick, who quickly interpreted the true significance of her touching grief.
It awakened a feeling of sympathy in the kind-hearted detective, moreover, together with a desire to befriend the girl, if possible, with which aim in view he gently drew her back of the conservatory and out of sight from the windows of the house.
Having made sure that they were safe from the eyes and ears of others, Nick brought all his kind influence to bear, and soon succeeded in getting Miss Royal into a more composed state.
She was barely twenty, an innocent and artless girl, obviously unused to the ways of the world, and that her secret heart had been won by the strong and magnetic nature of Moses Flood, while she was entirely ignorant of his vocation, did not in the least surprise the detective. How he could now serve her best, however, was Nick’s immediate and chief consideration.
“Now come, Miss Royal, I want you to confide in me,” said he, in a kindly and impressive way. “You are in trouble, and need a good friend, one who knows all the ways of the world, and just what is of true value in it. I shall have only your happiness and welfare at heart, I assure you, and very possibly I can do more for you than you imagine. Come, now, and confide in me.”
The girl heard him like one in a dream at first, but Nick had an influence at such times that was quite irresistible, and Dora Royal soon began drying her pretty eyes.
“But you are a stranger to me, sir,” she protested, in charming uncertainty. “I never saw you before——”
“Well, well, so I am, and I hope you’ll excuse me,” laughed Nick, in a way to further reassure her. “I felt so moved by your grief that I really forgot to be conventional. Here is my card, Miss Royal. Perhaps you know me by name.”
“Are—are you the famous detective?” faltered Dora, with glistening eyes, raised from the card to seek his.
Nick laughed again, and his smile proved to be contagious this time, for the drawn lips of the girl began to relax a little.
“I am Nick Carter, the detective,” he replied. “How great I am I leave others to say. I certainly should feel that I had done something worthy, Miss Royal, were I to succeed in restoring all you now feel to be lost to you. Who knows but I may, eh?”
“Oh, Detective Carter, do you think so?”
“Possibly.”
“But how? If——”
“Nay, let’s get at this in proper order, that there may be no misunderstanding,” interposed Nick, smiling. “First, let me know that you desire me for a friend, and that you feel you can trust me.”
“Indeed I do, sir. Your name alone is sufficient.”
“Will you rely blindly upon my judgment, and consent to follow my advice?”
“Willingly, sir,” bowed Dora. “I am sure it will be good advice.”
“Never anything else,” declared Nick heartily. “Will you also confide in me?”
“I think so, sir, if you require it.”
“Oh, I shall not ask you to tell me very much that I do not already know,” said Nick, with a sort of paternal fondness. “How did you happen to overhear the interview yonder? I’m sure you did not deliberately play the eavesdropper.”
“Indeed, no; I would not have done that.”
“You were——”
“I was reading in the shade of the shrubbery near-by, and when they began speaking——”
“You literally could not move, eh?” Nick again interposed. “Ah, well, I saw that the disclosure quite overwhelmed you, and perhaps it was all for the best.”
“Best, sir? Oh, how can that be? If Mr. Flood is as bad as—as——”
“As your worthy father really implied, he would be a very bad man, indeed,” laughed Nick quietly. “But your good father is both right and wrong, Miss Royal. There are far worse men than Moses Flood, my dear girl; and if he were to throw up his miserable vocation, which he intimated he intended doing for your sake, he would be a man whose hand I would grasp as a friend and brother.”
“Oh, Detective Carter, do you say so?”
“And who knows, Miss Royal, but that we yet may lead him to do so, and your father into regarding the matter in a rather different light.”
“Oh, if we only could!”
“But do not enthuse too quickly, my dear,” laughed Nick. “The job is yet to be done, as we detectives say, and the task must be yours and mine alone. No third party must be admitted to our secret, mind you.”
“Trust me, I will do whatever you advise,” declared Dora, now quite aglow with reawakened hopes. “I am sure you mean to be my friend, Detective Carter, and I will trust you blindly.”
“I think you will never regret it,” bowed Nick, gently pressing the hand she impulsively had given him. “You need not tell me that you love Mr. Flood, for I already know it.”
“Ah, sir, he has been so kind and generous; so attentive to us all, and so gentle and dignified——”
“Well, well, never mind that,” smiled Nick. “All that is like Mr. Flood. Tell me, however, if any one else suspects your affection.”
“Oh, no, sir. Indeed, no!”
“So I inferred.”
“I have kept it all to myself.”
“But what of Mr. Kendall? I think your father told Flood you were engaged to him.”
Dora blushed a little, and appeared confused for a moment.
“Really, sir. I have no deeper feeling than that of esteem for Mr. Kendall,” she presently replied. “I greatly fear that my father drew upon his imagination somewhat, and merely aimed to insure the end of Mr. Flood’s visits.”
“Oh, very likely,” nodded Nick. “Yet you would have let Flood go without disabusing him?”
The girl turned and pointed toward the house.
“My father is an aged man, sir, and I have been taught to be dutiful and obedient,” said she, with charming simplicity. “I saw him in tears when he dismissed the man, who, without knowing it, has won my love. I could do no less than remain silent, sir, and abide my own time.”
“You’re a good girl,” said Nick gravely. “I shall do all I can, Miss Royal, to turn matters in your favor. Meantime, however, should anything happen and you need advice, I want you to come to me, or send for me, and I will come to you. It may be greatly to your advantage to do so, rather than to go to another.”
“Then, sir, I surely will do so.”
“Without fail?”
“Without fail, Detective Carter. I will appeal to you only.”
“Very good,” bowed Nick. “Now, one thing more, and I then must leave you for the present. When was Mr. Kendall last here?”
“Nearly a week ago, sir.”
“He is away?”
“He is in Boston, sir; and my brother is with him,” said Dora. “But we expected Harry to return this morning.”
“Possibly he has been unavoidably delayed,” said Nick, now convinced that none at the rectory could give him the information he wanted.
“I imagine that is so, Mr. Carter,” replied the girl.
Nick deferred his departure only to add a few words of advice and instruction, then made his way out of the grounds and returned to the city. He left Dora Royal, if not the happier because of his visit, at least encouraged by his kindly assurances. There was nothing new or strange in this interest thus exhibited by Nick. It was second nature to him to try to serve those he found in distress, particularly in such a case as this.
On arriving in town Nick hastened to his residence and there had a talk with Chick, his chief assistant, to whom he imparted the whole story.
“I wish to locate Kendall this evening, if possible,” said he, in conclusion. “There’s a bare chance that we may find him at Flood’s gambling-house, or there get a line on his whereabouts.”
“Just as likely as not,” nodded Chick, in genial assent. “Why not go up there, Nick?”
“That is my intention.”
“Want me?”
“You may as well come along. There may be something doing.”
“Good enough! What disguise, Nick?”
“The usual one, Chick, and I’ll slip into my make-up as Joe Badger.”
“I’ll be ready as soon as you are, Nick.”
In their pursuit of criminals it frequently became necessary for the Carters to visit the gambling-houses about town, both high and low. The presence of a detective, however, if known as such, is always objectionable to the proprietors of these places. For which reason both Nick and Chick had each a disguise in which, at such places, they were supposed to be men addicted to gaming, and were freely given admission. With the opening of any new house of this character, both at once cultivated the acquaintance of the managers, and thereafter visited the place only often enough to keep up appearances, or when in search of some crook.
Nick frequently had been in Flood’s sumptuously furnished house, where he was known as Badger, and none dreamed of his being a detective, not even Flood himself.
It was about seven o’clock that evening when Nick and Chick approached the gambling-house, and as luck would have it, they encountered Flood just as he was entering.
“Good evening, Mr. Badger,” the gamester said politely, as the three men mounted the steps.
“How are you, Flood?” rejoined Nick. “You remember my friend here, Tom Cory? He was here with me about a month ago.”
“I do not recall his face,” smiled Flood gravely. “Possibly I was absent at the time. Glad to meet you, Mr. Cory. Any gentleman recommended by Mr. Badger is always welcome here. Come in, please.”
And Flood shook Nick by the hand, while the attendant at the street door closed the heavy portal behind them.
Thirty seconds later the clang of the bell silenced the disturbance at the faro table, as previously described, and the three men entered the tiger’s lair.
CHAPTER V.
A TURN OF LUCK.
The effect of Moses Flood’s entrance into his gambling place was magical. It was as if a king had come into the presence of half-a-dozen squabbling courtiers.
Godard shrank back in his lookout chair and relapsed into silence. The several players who had risen in the brief excitement resumed their seats with an air of unconcern, and the dealer continued his shuffling of the cards.
“What’s the trouble?” Flood quietly demanded.
He halted for a moment, erect and motionless, with his piercing eyes bent darkly on the scene.
“Nothing much, sir,” rejoined the humpback, as he dropped the bar across the closed door. “A bit of backcap, that’s all. It’s over now.”
“It had better be,” was the significant response.
Flood’s keen eyes had taken in the situation, yet his coldly dispassionate countenance masked his feelings as with a veil of ice. He passed back of the table, gravely greeting the several players, then paused to gaze down at the sleeping youth on the couch.
“Did he come in with you?” he asked, turning soberly to Cecil Kendall.
“Yes,” replied the latter, with a faint smile crossing his pale face. “We have been over to Boston. Only returned this noon.”
“He has been drinking heavily, hasn’t he?”
“Rather.”
“Wayward fool!”
“I tried to dissuade him,” muttered Kendall. “He’s in no shape to go home, so we dropped in here.”
Flood’s face was clouded with a censorious frown as he turned away to place his hat on a rack near-by.
Godard had made no further remarks, but sat staring oddly at Kendall, who now appeared to ignore him.
The humpback had resumed his position at the end of the table, with his legs curled under him in his chair, with his ungainly head drawn down between his shoulders, and his attention directed upon the movements of the dealer, who had thrust the cards into the box and was about to start a new deal.
Just then, however, Moses Flood approached him from behind and detained him with a significant touch on the shoulder.
Bruce did not commence to deal.
“How are they coming, Kendall?” Flood quietly asked, with a glance at the former’s chips.
“Rocky,” said Kendall, with a sickly smile.
“That so?”
“Win these, Mose, and you have my pile. I shall be down and out, in more senses than one.”
Flood knew too well what he meant, yet his countenance did not change by so much as a shadow. He addressed the dealer, saying gravely:
“Go and get your supper, Tom, and I will deal while you are out,” said he. “I shall wish to be away for an hour or two after you return.”
“All right, sir.”
“You, Godard, may rearrange that sideboard, if you will. It looks as if it had been struck by lightning. The cues can declare it if I overpay.”
“Not much danger of that, Mr. Flood,” smiled Godard, as the two men at once complied.
Flood made no reply. He wheeled the lookout’s chair a little to one side, as if it was in his way. In fact, however, he wanted no one in it during the next half-hour.
Then he took the dealer’s seat at the table, that which Tom Bruce had vacated.
“You may draw the curtains back of me, John, and close the window. I feel a draft,” said he, addressing the cuekeeper.
He never called him by his nickname. In his sight the deformed man’s affliction was great enough as it was. This showed of what the nature of Moses Flood was capable.
He had removed his coat and opened his vest. He was rather slow in his movements, and not without an object. He had been on fire within. He now was cooling down. He was setting his nerves to the extraordinary task he saw before him.
As the humpback left the window, Flood turned as if to see that it was closed. For the moment his face was averted from the several players. Only Humpty Green could see it, and he caught from Flood’s eyes a flash that thrilled him through and through. It was a magnetic telegram, an unuttered command. It was understood, and the cuekeeper was startled; but even the cuekeeper in a faro-bank commands his emotions. Without a change of countenance he resumed his seat.
Meantime, Nick Carter and Chick had sauntered over to the sideboard, then dropped into two chairs near the wall, where they sat, quietly talking and pretending to be sizing up the game.
“There’s your man, all right,” murmured Chick, when Kendall’s name was mentioned.
“Yes,” nodded Nick. “That is about what I expected.”
“Are you going to arrest him?”
“Not at present. I’m not sure that he is guilty of embezzlement, and Gilsey wished to give him till to-morrow to report at the bank.”
“You’ll keep an eye on him, eh?”
“Rather.”
“Yet——”
“Wait a bit,” muttered Nick. “By Jove! there’s something out of the ordinary going to come off here.”
“Think so?”
“Look at Flood’s face. It’s as colorless as marble.”
“So ’tis, Nick.”
“There is something in the wind. He has got rid of his dealer and sent his lookout from the chair. By all that’s good and great, Chick, I believe he’s up to some extraordinary move.”
“You’ll wait to see?”
“I should say so.”
None of this was overheard by others, and the two detectives gave no sign of observing anything unusual. It took Nick’s keen eyes and broad experience, moreover, to detect in Moses Flood the slightest indication of what he had in mind.
Flood had reverted to the table, and the light again fell full on his face. It was pale, yet composed; stern, yet not evil; expressive, yet changeless.
He was thinking of the girl to whose hand he had aspired, of the rector whose censorious words still were ringing in his ears; and he was thinking, too, of the wretched man seated opposite, a man who had fallen lower and sinned deeper than he had ever done.
He was about to do what only one man in millions would have done. He believed what the rector had told him, that Dora Royal loved this man, who, were his sin to be brought home to him, would become a criminal at law and an outcast of society.
For the sake of the girl, and to preserve her happiness, Moses Flood, looking for no return, not so much even as a smile of gratitude, was about to secretly sacrifice a goodly part of his fortune upon the altar of his own hopeless affection.
He had spoken the truth, this man, when he said, “Even a gamester may love nobly, and be capable of great self-sacrifice.”
Yet his face was a mask, hiding the emotions within.
One man only among all his observers could read it aright—Nick Carter.
Flood laid aside the deal box lately used, and took another from a lower drawer of the table, of which he alone had the key.
The box appeared to be precisely like the other—but it was not. With slight manipulation, the dealer could lower an invisible plate within, thus widening the slot through which the cards were dealt, allowing the passage of two cards instead of one. The mechanism could not be discovered, except with close examination, and even then a novice would not detect it.
“What’s the matter with the other box?” demanded a player, at once betraying a gambler’s suspicions.
“Nothing that I know of,” said Flood coldly. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, for no reason. I wondered why you shifted, that’s all.”
“Because I wanted to,” said Flood. “I prefer to work with my own tools. Are you suspicious? If so, you are not invited to play.”
“That’s true enough.”
“If my word is of weight with you, however, you may be sure that a false card was never dealt in this place, to my knowledge.”
And he spoke the truth.
“The game is strong enough without it,” smiled Kendall, over whom, as over all, Moses Flood seemed to exercise a strangely magnetic influence.
The latter made no reply, but took from the same drawer a deck of cards bound with a rubber, which he deliberately removed and threw to the floor. They were well seasoned, and of a rare and expensive quality, and unique design. They were of the kind known as “crazy backs.”
Nick Carter recognized them the moment his gaze lighted on them. He leaned nearer to Chick and whispered quietly:
“I begin to suspect what’s coming off here, Chick. That’s a brace box, for a hundred.”
“The dickens! Do you think so?”
“I do, indeed. And that deck of cards he has just brought up, Chick, is a deck of strippers.”
“What are strippers, Nick?”
“Cards used for dealing one kind of a brace game,” whispered Nick. “They are cut just the least bit wider at one end than the other. The narrow ends of the cards forming the middle of the layout are turned one way in shuffling, and those comprising the ends of the layout are turned the other.”
“What’s the idea of that?”
“Simple as two and two,” replied Nick softly. “After shuffling the deck, the dealer takes the wide end of the cards between his thumbs and middle fingers, and with a movement so rapid as to defy detection, he strips them apart. Then he holds in one hand the cards corresponding to the ends of the layout, and in the other those comprising the middle. After putting them together, and placing them in the box, he knows almost to a certainty which cards are to win and which to lose throughout the deal.”
“The devil you say!” muttered Chick. “Then there must, indeed, be something coming off here.”
“Wait and see.”
Now, a word concerning the brace game Nick had partly described. Suppose that a player bets heavily upon an end card of the layout to win.
The dealer sees that the bet is placed correctly, and for him to win the amount wagered it is necessary for him to reverse the combination of the cards. What does he do? He presses down on the secret plate in the box, and in making the turn, instead of dealing two cards, a winner and a loser, he deals three, and so adroitly that the deception is not observed. This reverses the combination, and the player referred to must lose. It is called “taking a card.”
But it is necessary, also, that the cues should show correctly at the end of the deal. The cuekeeper watches the dealer attentively. The latter, after taking a card, signs by prearranged signals to the former, who raps once with a chip against the side of the cue-rack, which signifies that the card taken is recorded, and at the end of the deal the cues are right.
Sometimes the cards are marked also, that the dealer may know each turn before making it. This is called “dealing at sight.”
What is all this that has been described? It is one way by which men thrust their hands into their brother’s pocket and rob him. It is more ignoble than stopping one in the darkness, and commanding him, at the point of a weapon, “Stand and deliver!” It is one of the methods by which is dealt the perfidious “brace faro!”
Such was the box and such the cards which Moses Flood had placed on the table before him.
The goggle eyes of Humpty Green began to open wider, his ungainly face to grow pale and grave. He had never known of such in the place, but the master had commanded and the menial would obey. He drew his chair closer to the table.
Amid that momentous silence which invariably marks the opening of a new deal, Moses Flood, his pale features fixed like marble, his eyes steadfastly intense, his white hands nerved to their performance, began to shuffle the cards. His movements were rapid and graceful. In the flash of an eye he had stripped the deck asunder, cut it, and placed it in the box. A six showed at the top; the ends of the layout were winners, the middle losers.
Flood sat back in his chair and waited the placing of bets. With an experienced eye he sized Kendall’s remaining chips; there were about six hundred dollars’ worth. The other players were wagering small amounts, and he gave them no attention. His mind was upon the man directly opposite.
Kendall’s hand trembled when it placed his first bet. He went on to the six to lose. He believed that he alone of all the world knew his dire need of winning.
This bet was wrongly placed, and Flood knew it, yet made a turn. There was no decision, but a king had showed winner, and Kendall coppered the next. In a spirit of antagonism he was bucking the cards.
Moses Flood leaned forward and glanced down upon the box. He could see the edges of the three top cards. They were marked by small, red dots, invisible to the players. Suddenly he made the turn. It was done like a flash. His forefinger touched for an instant the left lower corner of the box, and the silence was broken by the quick, responsive rap of the cuekeeper. He had taken a five. The cue was marked up, and the combination was reversed.
Cecil Kendall had won his first bet—and the face of the humpback was a study; for, by taking the card, the dealer, contrary to all precedent, had forced himself to lose!
Humpty Green decided that Moses Flood had made a mistake.
The good luck seemed to encourage Kendall. He placed another bet—and won. He doubled the amount, and won again. He moved bet and payment to the corner of a card, and said in tones tremulous despite him:
“That goes both ways.”
He whispered the turn—it was followed by a rap from the cuekeeper.
The latter’s face was now livid from uprising excitement, and his eyes like glowing coals. There could be but one meaning to what he saw—Moses Flood was indeed dealing a “brace game,” but he was dealing it against himself, and forcing Cecil Kendall to win! With form quivering in his chair, the menial looked at the master. He might as well have looked at the ceiling.
To Kendall it seemed like the interposition of fate. The spirit of fortune inspired him. He observed that his last bet topped the limit, yet he had not been stopped.
“How high can I go?” he asked suddenly, looking up at the dealer.
“Till I call you down,” answered Flood, with unmoved countenance.
“Look out, or I’ll break you,” laughed Kendall nervously, his face flushed, his eyes glowing.
“You cannot break me,” replied Flood, with calm gravity.
“How much can I win?”
The question came with strangely abrupt eagerness.
“Ninety thousand dollars,” was the nonchalant rejoinder.
A momentary pallor swept over Kendall’s face at the mention of the sum, and his glittering eyes flashed for an instant on Flood; but the latter’s countenance, void of insinuation, was as cold and calm as a sea of ice. The player’s brow darkened slightly, and his lips became drawn in the intensity of his mental action. Had he known what the humpback, shaking in his chair, knew at that moment, he would have won the sum in half-a-dozen turns.
“God!” he cried to himself. “What would that be to me! it would place me on my feet again! It would make me a man again—a man worthy of life and of her! God above, is it possible to win it?”
He saw a possibility, one chance in a hundred, and took it. He was well worthy his reputation of a high-roller. Down he went upon the layout with his chips; now betting one, now two, now three hundred dollars on a card.
The chips before him gathered like Arctic snow. One, two, three thousand dollars was passed—and yet he won. His face burned as from fever. He was on fire within. He could scarcely comprehend what was taking place, but that it was was sufficient; and a fervent hope, banishing sober contemplation, urged him on. He pressed his bets from two to three, and from three to five hundred, yet Moses Flood never spoke. He was glad to see him do so, for the other players, astounded by the seeming run of luck, were beginning to follow Kendall.
The silence, oppressive in its intensity, was broken only by the occasional rap of the cuekeeper and the labored breathing of the sleeping youth upon the sofa.
“Last turn,” said the humpback suddenly, his voice deep and husky in his throat. “An ace, five, and seven in.”
Then, for the first time during the deal, did Moses Flood glance at the cue-rack, and raising his eyes, like stars in his stoical face, he gave its keeper a look of such intensity that the fellow fairly shuddered in his chair. It was a command of silence which he dared not disobey.
Cecil Kendall placed his bets, and Flood made the turn.
The cues were right, despite the fact that six cards had been taken, and the humpback breathed a sigh of relief.
Something like an exclamation of triumph, half suppressed, broke from Kendall’s lips. He had called the turn and emptied the check-rack.
The recreant cashier of the Milmore Trust Company had won twenty thousand dollars on the deal.
He had experienced a wonderful turn of luck.
CHAPTER VI.
A STARTLING SEQUENCE.
As the deal ended, a deep sigh of relief rose from the several players at the table, as from men long submerged in water. Their suppressed excitement had been intense, fairly painful at times, and this halt between the deals was a welcome respite.
Except Moses Flood and the deformed cuekeeper, only one man in the room saw what Moses Flood was doing. Before the deal was half out, Nick Carter detected the gamester’s design, as well as the marvelous dexterity with which it was executed. And Nick readily guessed, too, the true occasion for it. Once more he leaned nearer to Chick and said softly:
“Do you see what Flood is doing?”
“I see that Kendall is winning,” whispered Chick.
“Like a race-horse. You are witnessing a bit of unselfish work that places Flood in a class all his own,” murmured Nick, with some feeling.
“What do you mean?”
“He is dealing so as to insure himself a loser, and forcing Kendall to win.”
“The deuce you say!”
“Mark me, Chick,” added Nick. “He will make Kendall win a sum sufficient to square him at the bank—ninety thousand dollars.”
“Good God!” muttered Chick. “Do you think so?”
“Wait and see.”
“What will you do about Kendall in that case?”
“I shall be governed by what I observe,” whispered Nick. “Be careful to give no sign that we are wise to anything. This is one of the most extraordinary episodes I ever witnessed.”
“But what object can Flood have in——”
“Hush! I can guess what it is, and for all the world I would not get in his way. I will explain it to you later. No more now, Chick. They’re off again.”
Flood again had shuffled and stripped the cards, then placed them in the deal box. Looking at his coldly stoical face, one would have said that he was utterly unconscious of his losses.
“You have emptied the chip-rack, Kendall,” said he deliberately. “Count me back twenty thousand dollars’ worth of your chips. I will note the sum, and pay you at the end of your play.”
He had no fear that the player would quit on the strength of such a proposition. He knew him too well—and his dire need to win more.
“Suppose my good luck continues?” said Kendall doubtfully.
“Ah, that is not likely,” said Flood calmly. “But you shall have all that you can win. I think you know me to be a man of my word.”
Kendall would have preferred to have the money, but he offered no further objection. He returned the chips desired, and Flood made a memorandum of the amount.
Then the next deal began. It was a repetition of the former, save that now and then, in order to keep the other players in check, Flood was compelled to let Kendall lose. But the latter won heavily on the deal as a whole, his bets being pressed to four figures, and when the final turn was made he had forty-five thousand dollars due him from the bank.
The intense strain to which Moses Flood was subjecting himself was beginning to tell on him. His teeth were hard set. The muscles of his jaw were rigid, and the veins about his temples were purple and swollen. The pupils of his dilated eyes were like points of electric light.
Despite his efforts to the contrary, other players were beginning to win by his manipulation of the cards, and Flood felt that the play must be brought to an end. As he dealt the cards and put them in the box for the third deal, he decided upon the surest and speediest method. He sized the chips in front of Kendall, then made a rapid turn.
One double was in the box. Kendall staked a thousand.
He won his bet fairly, and Flood lost six hundred to the other players. He bit his lip as he paid the bets.
Then he glanced down at the next turn to come, and saw that Kendall was destined to lose. The outsiders also were upon the card to win, following fortune’s favorite. Moses Flood could have won all the bet by making an honest turn. Instead, he took a card—and lost all.
He paid the bets without a change of countenance—then sat back in his chair.
“With this memorandum and the chips in front of you,” said he, looking across at Kendall, “I owe you forty-five thousand dollars. You may bet the entire amount on a case card.”
“What’s the objection to continuing as we’re going?” cried Kendall, aghast at the offer. “I’m doing well enough as it is.”
Flood’s cold features underwent no change.
“You may make the bet suggested, Kendall, or come down to the limit,” he said firmly.
“You cannot get even by that,” growled Kendall sullenly.
“Nor can you win so rapidly.”
“Your proposition goes, does it?”
“What I say in this place always goes.”
Kendall sat silent for several moments. He already had won half of the sum he so direfully needed, but he could not believe that fortune would favor him much longer. He was a ruined man when he entered the place, and with only half the desired sum he still was ruined. To win the bet suggested meant to him—redemption. There was no alternative but to accept the offer.
Flood knew absolutely how Kendall would size up the situation, that he would take this one chance to square himself. He was not surprised, therefore, when the latter cried hoarsely:
“I’ll make the bet!”
“Give me all of your chips,” said Flood calmly.
Kendall stacked them upon the layout.
Flood transferred them to the chip-rack, then tossed a marker, a small, square piece of ivory, across the table.
“That goes for forty-five thousand, Kendall,” said he. “Bet it on any card you please.”
A hush like that of a death chamber fell over the room.
A fortune was to hang on the turn of a single card.
Not another man placed a bet.
The color of the marker, white, seemed to give nerve to Cecil Kendall. If it had been a black one, he would have shrunk and hesitated. As it was, he played a three-time loser to win, tossing the marker upon the card, and then sat back in his chair, half fainting, and waited the turn that was to decide his fate.
The excitement was intense, utterly indescribable, yet not a sound broke the deathly stillness.
Moses Flood alone appeared to be calm—but the condition was external only. He leaned a little forward, that he might look down on the box on which every eye was focused, and anticipated each coming turn.
He made one turn and there was no decision of the enormous bet. He then made another, a third, a fourth, and still there was no decision.
Then he hesitated.
Kendall was breathless. His eyes were fixed, staring wildly at the deal box, and his teeth were chattering. He was like a man yearning for pardon even under the muzzles of guns that hung upon the command to fire.
Could he endure the suspense? Would reason sustain the strain? Or would he suddenly reach forward and withdraw the bet?
Looking down upon the deal box, Moses Flood saw the coming turn.
He saw that Kendall was fated to lose his bet.
Despite his iron will, Flood began to tremble. To accomplish his sublime object, he was obliged to take a false card. Could he do it in his present state and under the glance of every eye? He ground his teeth, knit his heavy brows, and the blood in the arteries of his neck seemed as if to burst its confines.
Still he hesitated—then the gong on the door broke the awful silence.
Every eye turned involuntarily toward the bell.
Flood’s hands moved with lightning like rapidity. They took the false card undetected. The turn was made—and Cecil Kendall had won!
He leaped to his feet, caught blindly at his chair, then cried wildly:
“No more! Not another bet! Not for life itself will I make another bet!”
Flood rose, with face fairly transfigured, and pointed to the sleeping man on the couch.
“Peace!” he sternly commanded, with a voice that silenced all. “Do not wake young Royal. He is in no shape to go home to his father and sister!”
Nick Carter leaned over and gripped Chick hard by the wrist.
“By all the gods, Chick,” he muttered huskily, “from this hour my money goes on Moses Flood!”
It was not strange, this feeling on the part of the great detective, for he, at least, knew what Moses Flood had done, and why he had done it.
“Let there be no disturbance here,” said Flood, now quite calmly. “John, go and answer the bell. And you, Mr. Kendall, come into my private room, and I will pay your winnings.”
Kendall tried to speak, but his voice died in his swelling throat.
The man who had rung the bell was the returning dealer, Tom Bruce.
Flood beckoned him to the table.
“Continue the game, Mr. Bruce,” said he gravely. “Gentlemen, I do not wish the episode of this evening to be noised abroad, and those of you who are my friends will govern yourselves accordingly.”
“Oh, we’ll keep mum about it, Mose!” cried several promptly.
As Flood passed the humpback, who was replacing the bar on the door, he laid his hand on the man’s shoulder and said softly:
“Not a word of this, John, for your life!”
“Trust me, sir!”
Moses Flood knew that he could trust him, and he believed that no other man on earth knew what he had done there that night. He locked the brace deal box in the drawer from which he had taken it, but kept the deck of strippers in his hand when he led Cecil Kendall into his private room.
As the door closed upon the two men, Nathan Godard sauntered nearer to Bruce and said carelessly:
“I’m going out to supper, Tom. I have one or two errands to do, and may be out a bit longer than usual.”
“All right, Nate,” nodded Bruce, who had taken his seat at the table. “Do not hurry back, as the boss said that he was going away.”
“I’ll return in about an hour,” added Godard.
Then he took his hat and departed.
Neither Nick Carter nor Chick observed him.
The eyes of both were fixed upon the closed door of Flood’s private room.