“Miss Stanton—pardon me—but please understand—No!”
Then he turned and, picking up his cards, resumed the game.
Beauty Stanton suffered a sudden vague check. It was as if a cold thought was trying to enter a warm and glowing mind. She found speech difficult. She could not get off the track of her emotional flight. Her woman’s wit, tact, knowledge of men, would not operate.
“Neale!... Come with—me!” she cried, brokenly. “There’s—”
Some men laughed coarsely. That did not mean anything to Stanton until she saw how it affected Neale. His face flushed red and his hands clenched the cards.
“Say, Neale,” spoke up this brutal gamester, with a sneer, “never mind us. Go along with your lady friend... You’re ahead of the game—as I reckon she sees.”
Neale threw the cards in the man’s face; then, rising, he bent over to slap him so violently as to knock him off his chair.
The crash stilled the room. Every man turned to watch.
Neale stood up, his right arm down, menacingly. The gambler arose, cursing, but made no move to draw a weapon.
Beauty Stanton could not, to save her life, speak the words she wanted to say. Something impeding, totally unexpected, seemed to have arisen.