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MOTIOX PICTURE MAGAZINE
a million and stakes it on a stock deal is a financier; a fellow who hooks a hundred from the cash-drawer and plays the ponies for a sure thing is a piker and a thief— funny, eh?" He laughed unctuously at his own humor, then suddenly slapped the cards down on the naked table and pointed to them, his jaw setting. ''Look here," he said; "I've got
the darkness they were torturing his child — God! and this man here was telling him to play a game of cards. He laughed out shrilly and lurched forward to the table, but Taylor was before him, snarling wolfishly over the slippery bits of Fate. The cards fluttered to the polished mahogany with lisping sound. The detectives drew nearer, watching curiously.
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' ' D 'YE HEAR ME ? I 'VE WON ! AND IT 's YOU WHO GOES TO JAIL ! ' '
you fellows in a tight place, but that isn't saying I'm bound to prosecute, you know." He watched the miserable hope dawning in the two haggard faces. "One of you has got to go to jail as an example, but I've decided to let the other off. " He gestured to the scattered cards meaningly. "Play to see which is which," he commanded.
The hunted men looked at each other in sudden murderous hatred. The Cain-glare died first out of Richards' eyes. Back there across
Grey leaned forward, his overfed face alert and eager, as Nero's might have been, above a gladiatorial combat. And the game began.
Taylor played fiercely, his breath coming and going in gulps between parted, parched lips. He wrenched his cards reluctantly from the deck, and bent above his opponent's counterplays with tortured snarls. Richards played like a man asleep, with stiff, slow motions and no sound. What were they doing now back there — those butchers bending above his little