“No; it's not mine”—Three-Ace Artie was still smiling. “That's the way to talk, Kid. I like that. But you're wrong—it's yours by rights.”
“By rights?” The Kid hesitated, studying Three-Ace Artie's face. “You mean,” he ventured slowly, “that the game wasn't on the level—that you stacked the cards?”
Three-Ace Artie shook his head.
“I never stacked a card on a man in my life.”
“Then I don't understand what you mean,” said the Kid. “How can it be mine by rights?”
“It's simple enough,” replied Three-Ace Artie. “I'm paying back a little debt I owe, that's all. I figured the boys had pecked around about deep enough on the outskirts of your pile, and that it was about time for me to sit in and save the rest. I cleaned you out a little faster than I expected, a little faster perhaps than the next man will if you try it again—but not any the less thoroughly. It's the 'next man' I'm trying to steer you away from, Kid.”
“Yes, I know”—the Kid spoke almost mechanically. “But a debt?”—his eyes were searching the gambler's face perplexedly now. Then suddenly: “Who are you?” he demanded. “There's something familiar about you. I thought there was the first time I saw you the other afternoon. And yet I can't place you.”
“Don't try,” said Three-Ace Artie softly. He reached out and laid his hand on the other's shoulder. “It wouldn't do you or me any good. There are some things best forgotten. I'm telling you the truth, that's all you need to know. You're entitled to the money—and another chance. Let it go at that. You agree to the bargain, don't you? You leave here with Bixley this afternoon—and this is between you and me, Kid, and no one else on earth.”
For a moment the Kid's gaze held steadily on Three-Ace Artie; then his eyes filled.
“Yes; I'll go,” he said in a low voice. “I guess I'm not going to forget this—or you. I don't know what I would have done, and I want to tell you——”