“Well, shall we try our luck?” he said, seating himself at the opposite side of the table.
Nodding assent, Consinor gathered up the cards and shuffled them. Several loungers who knew of the previous game and wondered what the next meeting between the two men would evolve, clustered around the table to watch the result.
Kāra won the cut and dealt. He played rather carelessly and lost. The stakes were a pound sterling.
“Double!” he cried, laughing, and again the viscount nodded.
The luck had shifted, it seemed, for the prince repeatedly lost. At first he chatted gaily with those present and continued to double with reckless disregard of his opponent’s success; but by and by he grew thoughtful and looked at his cards more closely, watching the game as shrewdly as his adversary. The stakes had grown to four hundred pounds, and a subtle thrill of excitement spread over the little group of watchers. Was Consinor going to win back his ten thousand pounds at one sitting?
Suddenly Kāra, in dealing, fumbled the cards and dropped one of them. In reaching to pick it up it slipped beneath his foot and he tore it into two. It was the queen of hearts.
“How stupid!” he laughed, showing the pieces. “Here, boy, bring us a fresh pack of cards,” addressing an attendant.
Consinor scowled and reached out his hand for the now useless deck. Kāra slipped the cards into his pocket, including the mutilated one.
“They are mine, prince,” said the viscount; “I use them for playing my game of solitaire.”
“Pardon, but I have destroyed their value,” returned Kāra. “I shall insist upon presenting you with a new deck, since my awkwardness has rendered your own useless.”