Simon had taken one glance at the cards, and that had been enough to assure him that Mr. Naskill would have been proud to claim them as his product. After that, he had been watching Mercer's back as he worked over the drinks. Yoring was still polishing his pince-nez when Mercer turned to the table with a glass in each hand. He put one glass down beside Yoring, and as he reached over to place the other glass in front of the Saint the cuff of his coat sleeve flicked the pince-nez out of Yoring's fingers and sent them spinning. The Saint made a dive to catch them, missed, stumbled and brought his heel down on the exact spot where they were in the act of hitting the carpet. There was a dull scrunching sound, and after that there was a thick and stifling silence.
The Saint spoke first.
"That's torn it," he said weakly.
Yoring blinked at him as if he was going to burst into tears.
"I'm terribly sorry," said the Saint.
He bent down and tried to gather up some of the debris. Only the gold bridge of the pince-nez remained in one piece, and that was bent. He put it on the table, started to collect the scraps of glass and then gave up the hopeless task.
"I'll pay for them, of course," he said.
"I'll split it with you," said Mercer. "It was my fault. We'll take it out of my winnings."
Yoring looked from one to another with watery eyes.
"I–I don't think I can play without my glasses," he mumbled.