“Shall we make it a thousand for the winner?” suggested the hammer-thrower.
“Haven’t that much,” said Bob. “Only got about seven dollars and a half, or so.”
“I’ll bet you seven dollars and a half, then.”
Bob accepted, and immediately had a run of luck. He was within two points of being out. The hammer-thrower had about fifty to go.
“Get that seven dollars and a half ready,” he said easily as he began his play.
“Maybe I shan’t have to,” replied Bob.
“Yes, you will.” He spoke as one not capable of making mistakes about what he could do. And he didn’t make a mistake this time. He ran out. Bob paid with as good grace as he could. Then the hammer-thrower moved heavily away and left Bob alone.
The latter didn’t feel quite so jubilant now over his secret knowledge as he had a little earlier. The hammer-thrower had permitted him to test his mettle—indeed, he had deliberately put himself out to do so, and make Bob realize even more thoroughly that he might just about as well not know anything for all the good it would do him (Bob). His lips might as well be sealed, as far as his being able to prove anything; if he did speak, people would answer as the hammer-thrower had. “Mad!” Or worse! That sanatorium incident was certainly unfortunate.
Bob put his hand in his pocket to get his handkerchief to wipe a few drops of perspiration from his brow. He drew out his handkerchief, but he also drew out something else—something hard—that glittered-a ring—a beautiful one—with perfect blue white diamonds—a ring he remembered having seen on certain occasions adorning one of Miss Gerald’s fingers.
Bob stared at it. He stood like one frozen to the spot. That hammer-man had done more than beat him at billiards. While he (Bob) had extended a portion of his person over the table to execute difficult shots the other had found it an easy trick to slip Miss Gerald’s ring in the coat-tail pocket of Bob’s garment. Could you exceed that for diabolical intention? Now what on earth was Bob to do with Miss Gerald’s ring?