Flood’s hands moved with lightning like rapidity. They took the false card undetected. The turn was made—and Cecil Kendall had won!
He leaped to his feet, caught blindly at his chair, then cried wildly:
“No more! Not another bet! Not for life itself will I make another bet!”
Flood rose, with face fairly transfigured, and pointed to the sleeping man on the couch.
“Peace!” he sternly commanded, with a voice that silenced all. “Do not wake young Royal. He is in no shape to go home to his father and sister!”
Nick Carter leaned over and gripped Chick hard by the wrist.
“By all the gods, Chick,” he muttered huskily, “from this hour my money goes on Moses Flood!”
It was not strange, this feeling on the part of the great detective, for he, at least, knew what Moses Flood had done, and why he had done it.
“Let there be no disturbance here,” said Flood, now quite calmly. “John, go and answer the bell. And you, Mr. Kendall, come into my private room, and I will pay your winnings.”
Kendall tried to speak, but his voice died in his swelling throat.