He lay his cards on the table, and he had the two, three, four, five and six of hearts.
There was a shout of astonishment.
"Ze pot ees mine!" exultantly cried the Frenchman.
"Stop!" rang out Frank Merriwell's clear voice. "That pot is not yours!"
Everyone looked at Merry.
"He is using a table 'hold-out!'" accused Frank, pointing straight at Montfort. "I saw him make the shift. The five cards that really belong in his hands will be found in the hold-out under the table!"
There was dead silence. The Frenchman turned sallow.
"It makes no difference," said the quiet voice of the detective, breaking the silence. "I have a higher straight flush of clubs here. Mine runs up to the eight spot, and so I win the pot."
He showed his cards and raked in the pot.
With a savage cry, M. Montfort flung his hand aside, leaped to his feet, sprang at Frank, and struck for Merry's face.