“Non. Le roi.”
The Count played and marked the King. Aristide had no trumps. The game was lost.
He sat back white, while the Count smiling gathered up the bank-notes.
“And now, Monsieur Pujol,” said he impudently, “I am willing to sell you this rubbish for the cheque.”
Aristide jumped to his feet. “Never!” he cried. Madness seized him. Regardless of the fact that he had nothing like another thousand pounds left wherewith to repay Mrs. Errington if he lost, he shouted: “I will play again for it. Not ecarté. One cut of the cards. Ace lowest.”
“All right,” said the Count.
“Begin, you.”
Aristide watched his hand like cat, as he cut. He cut an eight. Aristide gave a little gasp of joy and cut quickly. He held up a Knave and laughed aloud. Then he stopped short as he saw the Count about to pounce on the documents and the cheque. He made a swift movement and grabbed them first, the other man’s hand on his.
“Canaille!”
He dashed his free hand into the adventurer’s face. The man staggered back. Aristide pocketed the precious papers. The Count scowled at him for an undecided second, and then bolted from the room.