Yoring looked at them blearily. He took a long time to make up his mind. And then, with a sigh, he pushed his hand into the discard.
"See you," said Kilgarry.
With a wry grin, the Saint faced his hand. Kilgarry grinned also, with a sudden triumph, and faced his.
Yoring made a noise like a faint groan.
"Fix us another drink, Eddie," he said huskily.
He took the next pack and shuffled it clumsily. His fingers were like sausages strung together. Kilgarry's mouth opened on one side and he nudged the Saint as he made the cut.
"Lost his nerve," he said. "See what happens when they get old."
"Who's old?" said Mr. Yoring plaintively. "There ain't more 'n three years—"
"But you've got old ideas," Kilgarry jeered. "You could have beaten both of us."
"You never had to wear glasses—"