The Mark of Cain | Page 5

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"I'm cleaned out," said he, "décavé. Good-night," and he walked away.
No one seemed anxious to open a bank. The punters had been winning all night, and did not like to desert their luck.
"Oh, this will never do," cried Cranley. "If no one else will open a bank, I'll risk a couple of hundred, just to show you beginners how it is done!"
Cranley sat down, lit a cigarette, and laid the smooth silver cigarette-case before him. Then he began to deal.
Fortune at first was all on the side of the players. Again and again Cranley chucked out the counters he had lost, which the others gathered in, or pushed three or four bank-notes with his little rake in the direction of a more venturesome winner. The new-comers, who were winning, thought they had never taken part in a sport more gentlemanly and amusing.
"I must have one shy," said Martin, one of the boys who had hitherto stood with Barton, behind the Banker, looking on. He was a gaudy youth with a diamond stud, rich, and not fond of losing. He staked five pounds and won; he left the whole sum on and lost, lost again, a third time, and then said, "May I draw a cheque?"
"Of course you may," Cranley answered. "The waiter will give you tout ce qu'il faut pour écrire, as the stage directions say; but I don't advise you to plunge. You've lost quite enough. Yet they say the devil favors beginners, so you can't come to grief."
The young fellow by this time was too excited to take advice. His cheeks had an angry flush, his hands trembled as he hastily constructed some paper currency of considerable value. The parallel horizontal wrinkles of the gambler were just sketched on his smooth girlish brow as he returned with his paper. The bank had been losing, but not largely. The luck turned again as soon as Martin threw down some of his scrip. Thrice consecutively he lost.
"Excuse me," said Barton suddenly to Cranley, "may I help myself to one of your cigarettes?"
He stooped as he spoke, over the table, and Cranley saw him pick up the silver cigarette-case. It was a handsome piece of polished silver.
"Certainly; help yourself. Give me back my cigarette-case, please, when you have done with it."
He dealt again, and lost.
"What a nice case!" said Barton, examining it closely. "There is an Arabic word engraved on it."
"Yes, yes," said Cranley, rather impatiently, holding out his hand for the thing, and pausing before he dealt. "The case was given me by the late Khédive, dear old Ismail, bless him! The word is a talisman."
"I thought so. The case seemed to bring you luck," said Barton.
Cranley half turned and threw a quick look at him, as rapid and timid as the glance of a hare in its form.
"Come, give me it back, please," he said.
"Now, just oblige me: let me try what there is in luck. Go on playing while I rub up my Arabic, and try to read this ineffable name on the case. Is it the word of Power of Solomon?"
Cranley glanced back again. "All right," he said, "as you are so curious---j'en donne!"
He offered cards, and lost. Martin's face brightened up. His paper currency was coming back to him.
"It's a shame," grumbled Cranley, "to rob a fellow of his fetich. Waiter, a small brandy-and-soda! Confound your awkwardness! Why do you spill it over the cards?"
By Cranley's own awkwardness, more than the waiter's, a little splash of the liquid had fallen in front of him, on the black leather part of the table where he dealt. He went on dealing, and his luck altered again. The rake was stretched out over both halves of the long table; the gold and notes and counters, with a fluttering assortment of Martin's I O U's, were all dragged in. Martin went to the den of the money-changer sullenly, and came back with fresh supplies.
"Banco?" he cried, meaning that he challenged Cranley for all the money in the bank. There must have been some seven hundred pounds.
"All right," said Cranley, taking a sip of his soda water. He had dealt two cards, when his hands were suddenly grasped as in two vices, and cramped to the table. Barton had bent over from behind and caught him by the wrists.
Cranley made one weak automatic movement to extricate himself; then he sat perfectly still. His face, which he turned over his shoulder, was white beneath the stains of tan, and his lips were blue.
"Damn you!" he snarled. "What trick are you after now?"
"Are you drunk, Barton?" cried some one.
"Leave him alone!" shouted some of the players, rising from their seats; while others, pressing round Barton, looked over his shoulder without seeing any excuse for his behavior.
"Gentlemen," said Barton, in a steady voice, "I