"Len' me what you've got."
"But—"
"All of it!"
Reluctantly Kilgarry passed over a roll. Yoring licked his thumb and numbered it through. It produced a total raise of four thousand one hundred and fifty dollars. He gulped down the rest of his drink and dribbled some more down his chin.
"Go on," he said thickly, staring at the Saint. "Raise that."
Simon counted out four thousand-dollar bills. He had one more, and he held it poised. Then he smiled.
"What's the use?" he said. "You couldn't meet it. I'll take the change and see you."
Yoring's hand went to his mouth. He didn't move for a moment, except for the wild swerve of his eyes.
Then he picked up his cards. With trembling slowness he turned them over one by one. The six, seven, eight, nine — and ten of diamonds.
Nobody spoke; and for some seconds the Saint sat quite still. He was summarizing the whole scenario for himself, in all its inspired ingenuity and mathematical precision, and it is a plain fact that he found it completely beautiful. He was aware that Mercer was shaking him inarticulately and that Yoring's rheumy eyes were opening wider on him with a flame of triumph.