Big Tom was staring squarely into the muzzle of a businesslike automatic, which was leveled in Cranston’s hand. The hawk-faced millionaire had not been deceived by Big Tom’s lackadaisical manner.
“Bring out that revolver you are holding” — Cranston’s voice came in a monotone — “and drop it on the desk.”
Big Tom obeyed sullenly. His flabby fist emerged from the drawer, and let a shining six-shooter fall upon the flat surface before him. Cranston reached forward with his free hand. The revolver clanked as it dropped upon the coins in the millionaire’s pocket.
Still holding his automatic, Cranston spoke deliberately to the man who had sought to trick him.
“Big Tom Bagshawe” — the words were jeering — “the friendly gambling king — a crook by profession. Wondering why things went wrong tonight? Did it ever occur to you that some one might see through your crooked methods?
“Luck” — Cranston’s voice was contemptuous — “is absent from your gambling dens, Bagshawe. That wheel of yours was fixed to win. I watched it and outguessed the man who ran it.”
“I was double-crossed — ” blurted Big Tom.
“Not by your operator,” interposed Cranston, “but by this.”
He moved the automatic closer to the gambler, and Big Tom quailed.
“When the wheel was set for the house,” declared Cranston, “I placed my money with the house. Your man was about to change it. Fortunately, he looked beyond the button on the table, and saw the muzzle of this automatic. He made no change. That spin of the wheel broke the bank.”