"And—and if I consented—mind, I only say 'if.'" The rancher's face twitched nervously.
"You would stand to win a fortune—and also one for your niece."
"Yes—yes. I might win. My luck may turn."
"It must—you cannot always lose."
"Quite right—I must win soon. It is a great offer—a splendid stake."
"It is."
"Yes—yes, Lablache, I will play. God, man! I will play you!"
Beads of sweat stood on John Allandale's forehead as he literally hurled his acceptance at his companion. He accepted in the manner of one who knows he is setting at defiance all honesty and right, urged to such a course by an all-mastering passion, which he is incapable of resisting.
Strange was the nature of this man. He knew himself as it is given to few weak men to know themselves. He knew that he wished to do this thing. He knew, also, that he was doing wrong. Moreover he knew that he wished to stand by Jacky and be true to his great affection for her. He was under the influence of potent spirit, and yet his thoughts and judgment were clear upon the subject. His mania had possessed him and he would play from choice; and all the while he could hear the voice of conscience rating him. He would have preferred to play now, but then he remembered the quantity of spirit he had consumed. He must take no chances. When he played Lablache he must be sober. The delay of one night, however, he knew would bring him agonies of remorse, therefore he would settle everything now so that in the throes of conscience he could not refuse to play. He feared delay. He feared the vacillation which the solitary hours of the night might bring to him. He leant forward and thickly urged the money-lender.
"When shall it be? Quick, man, let us have no delay. The time, Lablache—the time and place."