“The lunch is on you, old thing,” said Vance. “But I’ll make it easy. All I want is a rasher of English bacon, a cup of coffee, and a croissant.”
Markham gave him a mocking smile.
“I don’t wonder you’re economizing after your bad luck of last night.”
Vance’s eyebrows went up.
“I rather fancied my luck was most extr’ordin’ry.”
“You held four of a kind twice, and lost both hands.”
“But, y’ see,” blandly confessed Vance, “I happened to know both times exactly what cards my opponents held.”
Markham stared at him in amazement.
“Quite so,” Vance assured him. “I had arranged before the game, d’ ye see, to have those particular hands dealt.” He smiled benignly. “I can’t tell you, old chap, how I admire your delicacy in not referring to my rather unique guest, Mr. Allen, whom I had the bad taste to introduce so unceremoniously into your party. I owe you an explanation and an apology. Mr. Allen is not what one would call a charming companion. He is deficient in the patrician elegancies, and his display of jewellery was a bit vulgar—though I infinitely preferred his diamond studs to his piebald tie. But Mr. Allen has his points—decidedly he has his points. He ranks with Andy Blakely, Canfield, and Honest John Kelly as an indoor soldier of fortune. In fact, our Mr. Allen is none other than Doc Wiley Allen, of fragrant memory.”
“Doc Allen! Not the notorious old crook who ran the Eldorado Club?”