"What the deuce?" cries he, pulling free.
"A touch fast, not much. You’ll do." In fact, I hadn’t found his pulse. "Seen the Prince, have you?"
"So you’ve heard! Yes, I have seen his highness." He eyed me with profound dislike. "I suppose you too believe this filthy slander?"
"Why should you think that?" says I, taking a chair.
"Those other idiots do—Williams and Coventry! And the Prince! And when did you ever believe good of anyone?"
"Not often, perhaps. But then, they don’t often deserve it. In your case, as it happens, I’m probably the only man in this house who is not convinced that you played foul."
His sneer vanished in astonishment, and he took a pace forward, only to stop in sudden doubt. "You’re not? Why?" Leery of me, you see; many people are.
"Because it makes no sense." I told him my reasons, which you know, and with every word his expression lightened until he was looking almost hopeful, in a frantic way.
"Have you said this to the Prince? What did he say, in heaven’s name?"
I shook my head. "Didn’t persuade him—or Coventry and Williams. Can’t blame ’em altogether, you know; the evidence is pretty strong, on the face of it. Five witnesses—"
"Witnesses?" cries he. "Damned imbeciles! Two idiot women, a parcel of boys who know nothing—what’s their word worth?" Almost in an instant the cool Guardee was gone, and he was standing before me, fists clenched and eyes wild, voice shaking with fury. Strange how a man can show a calm front and a stiff lip when all the world’s agin him, but drop a sympathetic word and all the rage and indignation will come bubbling out, because he thinks he’s found a friend to confide in.
"How can they believe it?" he stormed. "My God, Flashman, how can they? Men who’ve known me twenty years and more—trusted friends! As though I would … stoop to this … this damned infamy! And for what?" There were tears in his eyes, and if he’d stamped and torn his hair I’d not have been surprised. "For a few paltry pounds? By heaven, I’ll throw it back in their faces—"
"Not if you’ve any sense, you won’t," says I, and he stared. "Might be taken for an admission of guilt. You won it fair and square, did you? Then you keep it." Sound advice, by the way.
"That’s the whole point, though," I added, sitting forward and giving him my eye. "Now, Cumming, don’t start tearing the curtains, but tell me, straight out … did you cheat?"
He was breathing hard, but at that he stiffened, and answered straight. "I did not! On my word of honour."
He was telling the truth, no question. Not because he said so, but because of what I’d seen and heard from the moment I’d entered the room. I don’t claim to be an infallible judge of my fellow man (and woman); I can be deceived, and put no faith in oaths and promises, however solemn. But I’ve been about, and if I knew anything at all, Gordon-Cumming’s demeanour, in and out of anger, rang true.
"Very good. Now, these witnesses—are they lying?"
That set him away again. "How the blazes should I know? The whole thing is abominable! What’s it to me whether they’re lying or not? Pack of idiots and prying women! Who cares what they say! Let me tell you, Flashman, their foul charges don’t matter a straw to me—they’re worthless! But that men like Williams and … and the Prince, whom I counted a friend—that they should turn against me … that they can bring themselves to believe this vile thing—my God, and that you, of all people, should be alone in having … having faith in me …"
I dare say he didn’t mean it to sound like an insult, but it did, and I found myself liking him even less than usual. He had gulped himself silent with outrage, so I resumed.
"You haven’t answered. Are they lying?"
"I neither know nor care!" He paced about and stopped, glaring at the wall. "Oh, I suppose not! The damned fools must think they saw something wrong, but who knows with ignorant young asses like those? What do they know of card play, even, or how such games are conducted? Tyros and schoolboys—that dummy Levett! That he should think for a moment—"
"Stop vapouring, and keep your head," I told him. "Dammit, man, I’m trying to help you!" I wasn’t, but there. "If you want to come out of this, you’d best stop ranting, and think. Now, then—they weren’t lying, you believe. So they were mistaken. How? That’s the thing—what was there in your play—the way you staked—that made ’em think you were diddling them?" I offered him a cheroot, and struck a match. "Now, settle down, and think that over."
He puffed at the weed in silence, made to speak, thought better of it, and then shrugged helplessly.
"How can I tell what they think they saw? Minds like theirs … stupid women and scatterbrains like young Wilson—"
"That won’t answer. See here—from what I’ve learned, they claim that on two or three occasions you had a £5 stake in front of you, and then hey, presto ! it was £15—after the hand had been declared. Now, how could that be? Think, man—unless they were seeing things, you must have added another two red chips to the one already there. Did you? Could you? No, don’t start bellowing—think! If you weren’t cheating—how came those extra chips to be there?"
He stood nursing his brow, and turned to me a face that was haggard with frustration. "I don’t know, Flashman. It can’t have been so … I swear I never added to my stake after the …" And suddenly he stopped, and his eyes and mouth opened wide, and he gave a choking gasp. "Oh, my God! Of course! The coup de trois! That’s it, Flashman! The coup de trois!" And he let out a great wailing noise which I took to be relief. "The coup de trois!"
"What the hell’s the coup de trois?"
"My system!" His eyes were blazing. "Why didn’t I think of it at once! I was tripling up—don’t you see? Look here!" He lugged a handful of coins from his pocket, spilling ’em all over the shop, and planked one on the table. "There—that’s my £5 stake. I win—and am paid a fiver from the bank …" He clapped down a second coin. "I let ’em lie, and add another fiver …" Down went a third coin "… and that’s my stake for the next hand—£15! It’s how I always play! Stake a fiver, win another, add a third! The coup de trois!" He was laughing in sheer triumph. "Why, it’s as old as the hills! Every punter knows it—but not those green monkeys, Wilson and Levett! They see a fiver staked, look away, look back again after the coup’s been declared and the bank has paid out—and see three fivers—my original stake, my winning, and the third which I’ve added for the next coup, perfectly properly!" He let out a huge gasp of relief and subsided into a chair. "And because they’re ignorant novices, brought up on old maid and halma, they think it’s foul play!"
"The only thing is," says I, "that they’re sure you added the extra chips after the coup was declared, but before the bank paid out—and that you accepted payment of £15."
"Then they’re wrong, that’s all! It’s a question of … of timing, can’t you see?"—
"They say that on one coup you jockeyed your stake and demanded an extra tenner from the bank-"
"Stuff and nonsense!"
"—and that once you flicked a chip over the line with a pencil—"
"That is a lie!" He was on his feet again, white with anger. "Dammit, man, can’t you see sense? Don’t you see what has happened? Some young fool sees my coup de trois, thinks it’s a fraud, tells the other young fools, and because they’re as dense as he is—aye, and as eager to believe the worst—they see all manner of things that ain’t there! Flicking chips with pencils—bah!" In his excitement he took me by the arm. "Don’t you see, Flashman?"
In fact, I did, and was feeling much let down. For what he said made some sort of sense … perhaps. Half-baked lads like Levett and Wilson, knowing nothing of such systems as the coup de trois employed by seasoned gamesters like Cumming, might well misinterpret his actions. It was, as he said, a question of timing, and in an ill-regulated drawing-room game, with no croupier on the first night, and the bank paying out any old how, it was possible that they might have thought Cumming was still to be paid when in fact he’d already got his winnings and was letting ’em lie, with an additional fiver, for the next coup. Now, if the thing were explained to them, they’d surely be bound to give him the benefit of the doubt—for Bertie would leap at the explanation as a lifeline, and for decency’s sake they’d have to admit that they might have been mistaken.