Rance cut the cards. The Girl dealt them steadily. Then,
“What have you got?” she asked.
“One pair,—aces. What have you?”
“Nothing,” throwing her cards upon the table.
With just a flicker of a smile, the Sheriff once more gathered up the pack, saying smoothly:
“Even now,—we’re even.”
“It’s the next hand that tells, Jack, ain’t it?”
“Yes.”
“It’s the next hand that tells me,—I’m awfully sorry,—” the words seemed to come awkwardly; her glance was troubled, almost contrite, “at any rate, I want to say jest now that no matter how it comes out—”
“Cut!” interjected Rance mechanically.