Van Bleit was lucky at cards. He played for high stakes; it was one of his varied methods of obtaining a livelihood. Certainly that afternoon he became no poorer. He and Denzil between them swept in the stakes.
“We’ll give you your revenge,” he said to Lawless.
And after supper they resumed their game and played far into the night. It was Lawless who eventually insisted on leaving off. He had been chafing for some time, thinking of his thwarted plans. Van Bleit, he knew, was likely enough to play through into the dawn. He pushed back his chair at last and rose.
“If you fellows don’t want any sleep,” he said, “I do. We’ve another day before us.”
Van Bleit laughed, rose, and stretched himself with a huge yawn.
“Late, is it? I never regard the time I spend over cards—or women,” he said. He finished his glass of whisky and scooped in his gains. “To-morrow I’ll give you a chance of winning some of this back.”
Lawless lighted the candles.
“Right!” he said. “I have a feeling that the luck is on the turn.”
“Then you ought to play on... She’s a fickle jade, and will change her mind in the daylight.”
“I’ll risk that. A man can’t be expected to play cards if he’s dead asleep.”