The men who had been playing at the same table with Denver and Jones were on their feet already, exclaiming, protesting, uttering indignant exclamations.
There was now a rush from the other tables, and Harry Van Santen led the crowd that gathered round the detected cheat.
Harry, with a very white face, uttered a harsh laugh which was meant to be reassuring, but which was hollow, hideous, unreal, and horrible to hear.
“What’s this?” he cried. “It’s a trick, a silly trick that some of you have played upon my brother! Who is it? You, Jones? Come, speak up and own to it like a man.”
Hard as was his forced laughter, the manner of the older American was so assured, his voice was so deep and so confident, that one or two of the men present seemed at first inclined to believe that the version of the affair which he was trying to maintain was the true one.
But Cecil Jones suddenly sprang up from his sprawling attitude, and stood erect.
“Gentlemen,” he said, addressing, conspicuously, not the two Americans, but the rest of the company, “there has been systematic cheating carried on here, as some of you might have guessed, I should think. Don’t be alarmed. There is nothing to be feared except by the men who have robbed you.”
The uproar of voices, excited, indignant, which had ceased when he began to speak, rose again when he left off.
In the midst of it, there was a shrill scream, and Mrs. Van Santen, looking, not the dear, simple old lady they were all used to, but a very virago, with flaming eyes and harsh voice, cried, addressing Harry and Denver—
“You can’t get away. The house is surrounded!”