“Feel like missing the deal, Will?” he asked casually.
But the set of the face lifted to him warned him of the negative which swiftly followed.
“Guess I’m not yearning.”
Peter followed it up while the cards were being cut.
“I’ve got to speak to you particular.”
A look of doubt suddenly leaped into Will’s eyes, and he hesitated.
“What d’you want?”
Peter eyed the tumbler of whiskey at the man’s elbow. He noted the heavy eyes in the good-looking young face. But the cards were dealt, and he waited for the finish of the hand. He saw Will bet, and lose on a “full-house.” His pile was reduced to four fifty-cent chips and the man’s language was full of venom at his 178 opponent’s luck. The moment he ceased speaking Peter began again.
“Your wife’s hurt bad,” he said. “Doc Crombie’s only just left her.”
Will started. He had forgotten. A sudden fear held him silent, while he waited for more. But no more was forthcoming. Only the blue eyes of his informant searched his face, and, to the guilty man, they seemed to be reading to the very depths of his soul. Something urged him, and he suddenly stood up.