By every law save that of the unwritten code of gamblers' honour, Inspector Lipinzki would have been justified in covering Salter as he went to set the alarum, and he had another very strong motive for doing it, but he didn't. He knew the game, and he played it.
They took their places in opposite corners of the hut, about eight paces apart. The little Ansonia clock seemed to think itself a boiler factory for the time being, so loudly did it tick the fatal seconds away.
W-h-irrrr—bang—bang—bang—ting-aling-a-ling—bang—bang—ting—bang—surrr-up.
It was as strange a chorus as mortal ears ever heard, and the little clock seemed to think so, and did its best to keep its end up. When it was over, Inspector Lipinzki pulled himself up on to his hands, and, looking across the hut through a mist of blood and a
