He could say no more. Sagreda threw his cards upon the table. He had grown terribly white, with a greenish pallor. His eyes, opened extraordinarily wide, stared at the viscount. Then he rose.
"I understand," he said coldly. "Allow me to withdraw."
Then, with a quivering hand, he thrust the heap of gold coins toward his friend.
"This belongs to you."
"But, my dear Velazquez.... Why, Sagreda!... Permit me to explain, dear count!..."
"Enough, sir. I repeat that I understand."
His eyes flashed with a strange gleam, the selfsame gleam that his friends had seen upon various occasions, when after a brief dispute or an insulting word, he raised his glove in a gesture of challenge.
But this hostile glance lasted only a moment. Then he smiled with glacial affability.
"Many thanks, Viscount. These are favors that are never forgotten.... I repeat my gratitude."
And he saluted, like a true noble, walking off proudly erect, the same as in the most smiling days of his opulence.