‘By the way,’ said Barter innocently, ‘do you never take a hand at----’
His supple fingers supplied the hiatus, dealing out an imaginary pack of cards with the flourishing dexterity native to them.
‘That’s what I’m here for, is it?’ thought Philip in his own mind. ‘We shall see.’ He said aloud, ‘Sometimes,’ in an indifferent tone.
‘There’s nothing worth seeing anywhere to-night,’ said young Barter. ‘Suppose we try a hand. What do you say to a game at Napoleon?’
Philip consented, and his host produced two packs of cards from the business safe.
They fixed upon the points and they began to play. The points were not those for which Mr. Barter really cared to play; for he was one of those people who find no joy in cards unless they risk more than they can afford to lose. But little fish are sweet, and he thought he had secured a greenhorn. As it happened, the greenhorn, though he was but eight-and-twenty, had travelled the world all over, and had found himself compelled to survey mankind from China to Peru. He was, moreover, one of those men who like to know things, and those quietly-observant eyes of his had taken note of the proceedings of a hundred scoundrels in whose hands the redoubtable Steinberg himself would have had but poor chances. The Greek had been Philip’s standing joy, the dish best spiced to suit his intellectual palate. He had delighted over him aboard ship, on the monstrous dreary railway journey between Atlantic and Pacific, in the little towns which form the centre of scores of Texan ranches, in hells at the Cape and in California, in the free ports of China, and on the borders of the Bosphorus. In point of fact he was by experience as little fitted to be played upon by a gentleman of young Mr. Barter’s limited accomplishments as almost any man alive.
Phil’s interest in the game had grown grimly observant in the first ten minutes. Young Mr. Barter had a knack, when he shuffled the cards, of slily inclining the painted sides upwards. He had another knack of leaving an honour at the bottom. He made a false cut with fair dexterity for an amateur. He could, when occasion seemed to make it profitable, discard with a fair air of unconsciousness. An ace dropped out of sight a hand or two earlier, was followed by a valueless card dropped openly. The ace was taken to supply its place with a perfect smiling effrontery. But Mr. Barter’s favourite trick came out when he had a weak hand. Then he smiled across at his opponent, breathed softly the words ‘six cards,’ and dropped the worthless hand on the top of the pack, calling for a new deal All this Philip Bommaney watched with a complete seeming innocence and good temper. He lost his sixpences handsomely, made no protest, and looked unruffled.