That frightened no one; they all came in; what caused them to halt and reflect was that, on Lionel being subsequently asked how many cards he wished to have, he said,
"None, thank you."
Not a syllable was uttered; there were surmises too occult for words. The player on Lionel's left bet an humble two shillings. The next player simply came in. So did the third—who was Mr. Percival Miles. Likewise the dealer; in fact, they were all prepared to pay that modest sum to inspect the age's hand. But Lionel wanted a higher price for that privilege.
"I'm coming in with the little two shillings," said he, "and I will raise you a sovereign."
That promptly sent out the player on his left; his neighbor also retired. Not so the pallid young man with the thin lips.
"And one better," he said, depositing another sovereign.
The dealer incontinently fled. There only remained Lionel and his enemy; and the position of affairs was this—that while Lionel had taken no additional cards, and was presumably in possession of a straight or a flush (unless he was bluffing), Miles had taken one card, and most likely had got two pairs (unless
he was finessing). Two pairs against two pairs, then? But Lionel had aces and queens.
"And five better," Lionel said, watching his enemy.
"And five better," said the younger man, stolidly.