The money-lender smiled at the rancher's eagerness. The two men cut in silence. Lablache cut a "three"; "Poker" John, a "queen."
"We will use your cards, John." The money-lender's face expressed an unctuous benignity.
The rancher was surprised, and his tell-tale cheek twitched uncomfortably.
"For deal," said Lablache, stripping one of John's packs and passing it to his companion. The rancher shuffled and cut—Lablache cut. The deal went to the latter.
"We want something to score on," the money-lender said. "My memorandum pad—"
"We'll have nothing on the table, please." John had been warned.
Lablache shrugged and smiled. He seemed to imply that the precaution was unnecessary. "Poker" John was in desperate earnest.
"A piece of chalk—on the wall." The rancher produced the chalk and set it on the floor close by the wall and returned to his seat.
Lablache shuffled clumsily. His fingers seemed too gross to handle cards. And yet he could shuffle well, and his fingers were, in reality, most sensitive. John Allandale looked on eagerly. The money-lender, contrary to his custom, dealt swiftly—so swiftly that the bleared eyes of his opponent could not follow his movements.
Both men picked up their cards. The old instincts of poker were not so pronounced in the rancher as they used to be. Doubtless the game he was now playing did not need such mask-like impassivity of expression as an ordinary game would. After all, the pot opened, it merely became a question of who held the best hand. There would be no betting. John's eyes lighted up as he glanced at the index numerals. He held two "Jacks."