Helena was straight--the words were repeating themselves over and over in his brain. He began to pace up and down the room. The words seemed to take form and shape in fiery red letters, being scrawled by invisible hands upon the walls--_Helena was straight_. Straight with Thornton, straight with any man--straight with her Maker. He knew that now--he had read it as a soul-truth in those brave, deep, tear-dimmed eyes. And he had _lost_ her! It seemed as though he had become suddenly conscious that he was enduring some agony that was never to know an end, that from now on must be with him always. He had lost her--lost Helena.
From his pocket he drew out his keys and opened his trunks, and took out the trays and spread them about. There were very many trays, they nested one upon the other--and they were exceedingly ingenious trays--false-bottomed every one. And now he opened these false-bottoms, every one of them, and stood and looked at them. The surest, safest, biggest game he had ever played, the game that had known no single hitch, the game that had brought no whispering breath of suspicion flung its tribute in his face. Money that he had never tried to count, notes of all denominations, large and small, glutted the receptacles--jewels in necklaces, in rings, in pendants, in brooches, in bracelets, diamonds, rubies, emeralds, winked at him and scintillated and glowed and were afire.
And he stood and looked upon them. What was it the Flopper had said when they had brought the Patriarch back--he did not remember. What was it that Pale Face Harry had said a little while ago--he did not remember. These were jewels here and money--wealth--and he had won the greatest game that was ever played--only he had lost her--lost Helena. And he stood and looked upon them--and slowly there crept to his face a white-lipped smile.
"I'm beat!" he whispered hoarsely. "Beat--by the game--I won."
It was evening of the same day--and there came a knock at the outer door of the cottage porch.
The Flopper answered it, and came back to the Patriarch's room; where the Patriarch sat in his armchair; where the lamp, turned low, throwing the little room into half shadow, burned upon the table; where Helena, far away from her immediate surroundings, quite silent and still, her own chair close beside the other's, nestled with her head on the Patriarch's shoulder.