“Well, I won it, didn’t I?” snarled Lamont. “And I paid my house charges, too, didn’t I? What more do you want? See here, Crane——”
“You will wait, Lamont, until I have finished,” returned Enoch firmly. “The incident of the poker game might have been closed, had you not left these in your trail.” Lamont started, a peculiar expression in his eyes. “These,” repeated Enoch. He reached in his coat pocket and drew out the white envelope James had given him. It contained three cards—the ace of clubs, the ace of hearts, and the ace of diamonds. “Look at them carefully, Lamont,” said he. “You no doubt recognize the pin scratches in the corners.”
“You lie!” cried Lamont, springing to his feet, his fists clenched, Van Worden staring at him in amazement.
“I might have expected that,” said Enoch, bending closer to him, and lowering his voice. “If you attempt to strike me, Lamont, I warn you you will find I am a stronger man than you imagine. What I say to you is the truth, and you know it.” Lamont noticed the size of his hands, the stocky breadth of his shoulders. “These cards are yours, marked by you,” continued Enoch. “James, who put you into a cab at daylight that morning, saw them slip out of your pocket—you were drunk—as he propped you back in the seat; he picked them up from the cab floor, discovered they were marked—came to me as a member of the advisory committee, in confidence, and gave me these in evidence.”
Lamont gripped the back of his chair to steady himself, the color had left his face, and the corners of his mouth twitched.
“You will either grant me an interview as I wish it, or I will lay the whole matter before the committee,” continued Enoch. “And now listen to me carefully. If ever I hear of you touching a card again in this club I’ll have you expelled.” And with this he picked up the empty envelope and the three telltale aces at a grasp, and shoved them back in his pocket before Lamont could prevent him. “You have asked for a witness; very well; Mr. Van Worden will bear testimony to what I have told you.”
“Guess you’ve no further need of me,” said Van Worden, who rose and left the dining-room, shaking his head. At the door he said to a sleepy waiter, “Split that dinner,” and rang for the elevator.
“Now that we are alone,” said Enoch, to the man whose honor lay in his hands, and who for a long moment stood staring at his empty glass, “I wish to tell you plainly, that I consider your attentions to Miss Preston a damnable outrage.”
“Preston?—Preston?— What Miss Preston?” stammered Lamont evasively.
“Don’t lie to me,” growled Enoch. “I wouldn’t pursue it, Lamont. It might be dangerous. I overheard nearly your entire conversation at dinner. You played her accompaniments at the Van Cortlandts’; you had the—you, a man of your record among women—had the insolence to bring that child home alone in your brougham. You left her, fortunately, at her mother’s door—my neighbor—we live under the same roof.”