Moses Flood alone appeared to be calm—but the condition was external only. He leaned a little forward, that he might look down on the box on which every eye was focused, and anticipated each coming turn.
He made one turn and there was no decision of the enormous bet. He then made another, a third, a fourth, and still there was no decision.
Then he hesitated.
Kendall was breathless. His eyes were fixed, staring wildly at the deal box, and his teeth were chattering. He was like a man yearning for pardon even under the muzzles of guns that hung upon the command to fire.
Could he endure the suspense? Would reason sustain the strain? Or would he suddenly reach forward and withdraw the bet?
Looking down upon the deal box, Moses Flood saw the coming turn.
He saw that Kendall was fated to lose his bet.
Despite his iron will, Flood began to tremble. To accomplish his sublime object, he was obliged to take a false card. Could he do it in his present state and under the glance of every eye? He ground his teeth, knit his heavy brows, and the blood in the arteries of his neck seemed as if to burst its confines.
Still he hesitated—then the gong on the door broke the awful silence.
Every eye turned involuntarily toward the bell.