"So it's you, Mr. Wallion," he answered without a trace of embarrassment. Derringer was a thin, bony Englishman with a skin deeply tanned by a tropical sun. "Take a chair and join in our game; we want one more to make up the ideal five."
After a casual, formal introduction to the other players, Wallion sat down. Ferail, who was the dealer, lifted his eyes for a second and gave him a swift look. The play continued for a time without interruption and in silence. Then the Greek ran his finger-tips through his frowzy beard, cast down his eyes, and observed:
"Where did you learn to play poker, Mr. Wallion?"
"At an Officers' Mess in India, Mr. Ferail."
"A very fine school, no doubt," said the antiquary. "You are going to beat me."
These were the first words they had exchanged. The game went on. Half-an-hour later Derringer burst out laughing, and said: "Your luck has turned, eh, Ferail?"
The antiquary had really lost a considerable amount, and his pile of money melted quickly away. Wallion acted on the defensive; he neither won nor lost, but kept his eye on Ferail, who sat sulky and silent, his white face, with the thin, sickly lips, giving not the slightest indication of the workings of his mind. He shuffled the cards and dealt them with a quick and practised hand. He seldom bought more than one or two, and with a kind of dogged obstinacy kept increasing his stakes, but that no longer helped him, for he lost every round. After another ten minutes Derringer rose, and there was no more play.
"It's so deucedly monotonous always to be winning," he said with a yawn. "Let us leave off, I'll give you your revenge to-morrow."
He and his two friends left the saloon, and Wallion and Ferail found themselves alone, sitting opposite one another.
Drops of moisture shone on the Greek's forehead, and he blinked his eyes as, with philosophic composure, he gathered up the cards, but he did not seem conscious that Wallion's sharp eyes were constantly fixed upon him. Presently Wallion leant across the table and said: