Short laughs resounded about the table. Had the player with such uncanny luck failed at last? Double 0 — the house number! It had not been played all evening!
Small amounts fell on other numbers; but no one dared reckon with the fatal double 0, despite the fact that the genius had chosen it.
The operator spun the wheel. His hand stayed away from the edge of the table. He — alone — still saw that threatening gun muzzle. His head sank listlessly. Big Tom’s wheel was fixed — prepared for such emergencies as this. For once, it had failed. The stone-faced man had called the turn.
When the wheel stopped, it showed the ball resting on double 0. The croupier stood aghast. Mechanically, he pushed over thirty-five thousand dollars to the winner.
Before the wheel was ready for another spin, Big Tom Bagshawe appeared upon the scene. His face was smiling, but the effort was strained. He spoke to the players who were gathered about the table.
“We must close immediately,” he declared. “I know that it is early, but we are very careful here. Our time is up.”
The players buzzed as they moved away from the table. Envious eyes were upon the tremendous pile of money that Lamont Cranston had accumulated. Had the devil, himself, stepped into this game, he could scarcely have fared better than this remarkable player.
Big Tom Bagshawe had spoken the truth when he said that the time was up. But he had not added the real reason. Tonight, the house had sustained unbelievable losses. The bank was broken!
Attendants were urging the players to leave. The room was emptying, and most persons were satisfied. They had shared in the winnings, to a moderate degree. But the winnings of that one player — he of the immobile face — were a matter of wild speculation.
GIFFORD MORTON was chatting with Herbert Carpenter as the two walked out together. The multimillionaire had won ten thousand dollars. He was in high spirits.