The Mark of Cain | Page 6

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 leave my conduct in the
hands of the club. If I do not convince them that Mr. Cranley has been
cheating, I am quite at their disposal, and at his. Let anyone who doubts
what I say look here."
"Well, I'm looking here, and I don't see what you are making such a
fuss about," said Martin, from the group behind, peering over at the
table and the cards.
"Will you kindly---- No, it is no use." The last remark was addressed to
the captive, who had tried to release his hands. "Will you kindly take
up some of the cards and deal them slowly, to right and left, over that
little puddle of spilt soda water on the leather? Get as near the table as
you can."
There was a dead silence while Martin made this experiment.
"By gad, I can see every pip on the cards!" cried Martin.
"Of course you can; and if you had the art of correcting fortune, you
could make use of what you see. At the least you would know whether
to take a card or stand."
"I didn't," said the wretched Cranley. "How on earth was I to know that
the infernal fool of a waiter would spill the liquor there, and give you a
chance against me?"
"You spilt the liquor yourself," Barton answered coolly, "when I took
away your cigarette-case. I saw you passing the cards over the surface
of it, which anyone can see for himself is a perfect mirror. I tried to
warn you--for I did not want a row--when I said the case 'seemed to
bring you luck.' But you would not be warned; and when the
cigarette-case trick was played out, you fell back on the old dodge with
the drop of water. Will anyone else convince himself that I am right
before I let Mr. Cranley go?"

One or two men passed the cards, as they had seen the Banker do, over
the spilt soda water.
"It's a clear case," they said. "Leave him alone."
Barton slackened his grip of Cranley's hands, and for some seconds
they lay as if paralyzed on the table before him, white and cold, with
livid circles round the wrists. The man's face was deadly pale, and wet
with perspiration. He put out a trembling hand to the glass of
brandy-and-water that stood beside him; the class rattled against his
teeth as he drained all the contents at a gulp.
"You shall hear from me," he grumbled, and, with an inarticulate
muttering of threats he made his way, stumbling and catching at chairs,
to the door. When he had got outside, he leaned against the wall, like a
drunken man, and then shambled across the landing into a
reading-room. It was empty, and Cranley fell into a large easy-chair,
where he lay crumpled up, rather than sat, for perhaps ten minutes,
holding his hand against his heart.
"They talk about having the courage of one's opinions. Confound it!
Why haven't I the nerve for my character? Hang this heart of mine!
Will it never stop thumping?"
He sat up and looked about him, then rose and walked toward the table;
but his head began to swim, and his eyes to darken; so he fell back
again in his seat, feeling drowsy and beaten. Mechanically he began to
move the hand that hung over the arm of his low chair, and it
encountered a newspaper which had fallen on the floor. He lifted it
automatically and without thought: it was the Times. Perhaps to try his
eyes, and see if they served him again after his collapse, he ran them
down the columns of the advertisements.
Suddenly something caught his attention; his whole lax figure grew
braced again as he read a passage steadily through more than twice or
thrice. When he had quite mastered this, he threw down the paper and
gave a low whistle.

"So the old boy's dead," he reflected; "and that drunken tattooed ass
and his daughter are to come in for the money and the mines! They'll be
clever that find him, and I shan't give them his address! What luck
some men have!"
Here he fell into deep thought, his