“Take up your cards,” grumbled an impatient voice.
Hockmaster picked them up. They were a 6 and a 4, which making 10, according to the principles of the game where tens and multiples of ten count as nothing, were valueless.
“Une carte?” asked the German.
“Yes.”
“The card was an ace. The beads of perspiration formed on the American's forehead. Only a miracle could save him—that of the banker drawing tens. For if the banker's pips totted up, subtracting multiples of ten, to any number between 2 and 9, Hockmaster lost. The banker displayed his cards. Two queens. The chances were now 9 to 4 in the banker's favour. He drew a card slowly from the top. It was the ten of diamonds.
“Baccara!” he gasped.
“One!” cried Hockmaster, throwing down his cards.
A hubbub of eager voices arose at the sensational victory. The German retired from the table and left the room without saying a word. Hockmaster wiped his forehead and stowed away the bank-notes and gold in his pockets.
“I reckon I've had enough too,” he exclaimed in a thick, unsteady voice. “Good-night, gentlemen.”
He rose, stretched himself, laid hold of Raine's arm, and the two went out together. As they reached the front steps of the Kursaal, they heard the German driving away in a cab that had been waiting.