“I have some letters to write. Fix that game for to-morrow or next day, and I’ll be on hand.”
Dunston and Holt paid the few shillings they owed, and went out.
Hare did not move. He looked anxious, almost annoyed. “It is exceedingly ridiculous how circumstances pass beyond a man’s control occasionally,” he protested. “Am I right in assuming that until this evening neither Bower nor Dunston was known to you, Mr. Spencer?”
“Absolutely correct, vicar. I have never yet spoken to Bower, and you heard all that passed between Dunston and myself.”
“Then my harmless invitation to you to join in a game at cards has led directly to an arrangement for play at absurdly high figures?”
“It seems to me, Mr. Hare, that Bower’s tracks and mine are destined to cross in more ways than one in the near future,” said Spencer coolly.
But the vicar was not to be switched away from the new thought that was troubling him. “I will not ask what you mean,” he said, gazing steadfastly at the American. “My chief concern is the outcome of my share in this evening’s pleasant amusement. I cannot shut my ears to the fact that you have planned the loss or gain of some thousands of pounds on the turn of a card at baccarat.”
“If it is disagreeable to you——”
“How can it be otherwise? I am a broad-minded man, and I see no harm whatever in playing bridge for pennies; but I am more pained than I care to confess at the prospect of such a sequel to our friendly meeting to-night. If this thing happens,—if a small fortune is won or lost merely to gratify Dunston’s whim,—I assure you that I shall never touch a card again as long as I live.”
Then Spencer laughed. “That would be too bad, Mr. Hare,” he cried. “Make your mind easy. The game is off. Count on me for the tenpence a hundred limit after dinner to-morrow.”