The spirit, the power, the ruthless nature in them had no
relation to beauty. How marvelously swift they moved--too swift for
the gaze to follow. And the incomparable dexterity with which he
manipulated the cards gave forth the suggestion as to what he could
do with them. In those gleaming hands, in the flying cards, in the
whole intenseness of the gambler there showed the power and the
intent to win. The crooked Durade had met his match, a match who
toyed with him. If there were an element of chance in this short
game it was that of the uncertainty of life, not of Durade's chance
to win. He had no chance. No eye, no hand could have justly detected
Hough in the slightest deviation from honesty. Yet all about the man
in that tense moment proved what a gambler really was.
Durade called in a whisper for two cards, and he received them with
trembling fingers. Terrible hope and exultation transformed his
face.
"I'll take three," said Hough, calmly. With deliberate care and
slowness, in strange contrast to his former motions, he took, one by
one, three cards from the deck. Then he looked at them, and just as
calmly dropped all his cards, face up, on the table, disclosing what
he knew to be an unbeatable hand.
Durade stared. A thick cry escaped him.
Swiftly Hough rose.
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