“I’ll make the bet!”
“Give me all of your chips,” said Flood calmly.
Kendall stacked them upon the layout.
Flood transferred them to the chip-rack, then tossed a marker, a small, square piece of ivory, across the table.
“That goes for forty-five thousand, Kendall,” said he. “Bet it on any card you please.”
A hush like that of a death chamber fell over the room.
A fortune was to hang on the turn of a single card.
Not another man placed a bet.
The color of the marker, white, seemed to give nerve to Cecil Kendall. If it had been a black one, he would have shrunk and hesitated. As it was, he played a three-time loser to win, tossing the marker upon the card, and then sat back in his chair, half fainting, and waited the turn that was to decide his fate.
The excitement was intense, utterly indescribable, yet not a sound broke the deathly stillness.