"The hand he dealt me?" The texture of Simon's mockery was like gossamer. "And he wasn't playing the hand I thought he had, either. I thought he'd have some fun when he got used to being without his glasses," he added cryptically.
He tipped up the cigar box and added its contents to the stack of currency in front of him, and stacked it into a neat sheaf.
"Well, I'm afraid that sort of kills the game for tonight," he murmured, and his hand was in his side pocket before Kilgarry's movement was half started. Otherwise he gave no sign of perturbation, and his languid self-possession was as smooth as velvet. "I suppose we'd better call it a day," he said without any superfluous emphasis.
Mercer recovered his voice first.
"That's right," he said jerkily. "You two have won plenty from me other nights. Now we've got some of it back. Let's get out of here, Templar."
They walked along Ocean Drive, past the variegated modernistic shapes of the hotels, with the rustle of the surf in their ears.
"How much did you win on that last hand?" asked the young man.
"About fourteen thousand dollars," said the Saint contentedly.
Mercer said awkwardly: "That's just about what I'd lost to them before… I don't know how I can ever thank you for getting it back. I'd never have had the nerve to do it alone… And then when Yoring turned up that straight flush — I don't know why — I had an awful moment thinking you'd made a mistake."
The Saint put a cigarette in his mouth and struck his lighter.