And suddenly Kilgarry guffawed and thumped the table.
"Go to it," he said. "Pick it up, Yoring. I take it all back. You're not so old, either!"
Yoring opened both his arms to embrace the pool.
"Just a minute," said the Saint.
His voice was softer and gentler than ever, but it stunned the room to another immeasurable silence. Yoring froze as he moved, with his arms almost shaped into a ring. And the Saint smiled very kindly.
Certainly it had been a good trick, and an education, but the Saint didn't want the others to fall too hard. He had those moments of sympathy for the ungodly in their downfall.
He turned over his own cards, one by one. Aces. Four of them. Simon thought they looked pretty. He had collected them with considerable care, which may have prejudiced him. And the joker.
"My pot, I think," he remarked apologetically.
Kilgarry's chair was the first to grate back.
"Here," he snarled, "that's not—"