Victor Burns, like all the rest around the table, had eyes only for the beautiful woman, with her graceful figure a-shimmer with the twinkling beads of her gown, and with her wealth of vivid hair under her modish hat framing a face which he was never tired of gazing upon.
Claire smiled her prompt reply, her lips parting and revealing a row of perfect teeth as she “saw” the bet and raised it another five hundred. The challenge was thrilling and on the instant every eye focussed on the man at the end of the table.
He raised his strange eyes and gazed hardly into those of the girl, and as he passed his chips into the centre of the table, McLagan drew a deep breath.
“Curse it, ther’s your fi’ hundred, an’ another on top of it. Will you see it?”
“Surely. And raise it.” Claire’s retort came in tones of smiling, unruffled calm. “It’ll cost you a thousand more.”
The man laughed. But the laugh was harsh and unconvincing in its lack of mirth.
“I like it in thousands,” he cried, as the girl’s chips were slid into place to swell the pot. “There’s your thousand and another. Well?”
There was a shuffling of feet amongst the spectators and several coughed. It was an expression of the wave of excitement surging.
The girl matched his bet and raised it another hundred. And the man laughed again with a further challenge.
“It’ll cost you another thousand!” he cried, and his tone was exulting.
Victor Burns found himself holding his breath while he waited for the girl’s move. Just for one instant her eyes flashed out of their usual calm. There was real excitement in them now. And he wondered if at last she had been caught out of her depth.
“And more,” she said. And her voice was perfectly steady. “One thousand more.”
Her chips had become exhausted and she thrust forward a roll of bills. Then she sat waiting for the man to come again.
It was the supreme moment when the test of nerve was at its highest pitch. The onlookers understood. Big game as they were used to witnessing at this centre table, it was the first time they had looked on with stakes rising by a thousand dollars at a bet. The question in every mind was the same. The man was obviously a gold man with a pouch full of dust. What was its limit? How far would he go under the influence of the surroundings and the liquor he had obviously consumed?