“Excuse me.” J.G. Reeder’s voice was gentle but everybody at the table heard it. “You can’t play with that pack: there are two cards missing.” The croupier raised his head. The green shade strapped to his glossy head threw a shadow which hid the top half of his face. He stared blandly at the interrupter--the dispassionate and detached stare which only a professional croupier can give. “_Pardon?_” he said, puzzled. “I do not understand m’sieur. The pack is complete. It is never questioned----” “There are two cards without which I understand you cannot play your game,” said Mr. Reeder, and suddenly lifted his hand. On the table before him were two playing cards, the ace of diamonds and the ace of hearts. The croupier looked down at them, and then, with an oath, pushed back his chair and dropped his hand to his hip. “Don’t move--I beg of you!” There was an automatic pistol in Mr. Reeder’s hand, and its muzzle was directed towards the croupier’s white waistcoat. “Ladies and gentlemen, there is nothing to be alarmed about. Stand back from the table against the wall, and do not come between me and Monsieur Lamontaine!” He himself stepped backward. “Over there!” he signalled to Machfield. “Look here, Reeder----” “Over there!” snarled J.G. Reeder. “Stand up by your friend. Ladies and gentlemen”--he addressed the company again without taking his eyes from the croupier--“there will be a few moments of acute unpleasantness. Your names and addresses will be taken, but I will use my best endeavours to avoid police court proceedings, because we are after something much more important than naughty people who play cards for money.” And then the guests saw strange men standing in the doorway. They came from all directions--from Mr. Machfield’s study, from the hall below, from the roof above. They handcuffed Lamontaine and took away the two guns he carried, one in each hip pocket--Machfield was unarmed. “What will the charge be?” “Mr. Gaylor will tell you that at the police station. But I think the question is unnecessary. Honestly, don’t you, Mr. Machfield?” Machfield said nothing. CHAPTER XI Mr. Reeder kept what he called a case-book, in which he inscribed a passionless account of all the cases in which he was engaged. Some of these cases had no value except to the technician, and would not interest anyone except perhaps the psycho-pathologist. Under the heading “Two Aces” appeared this account, written in his own handwriting. In the year 1919 (wrote Mr. Reeder) there arrived at the Hotel Majestic in Nice a man who described himself in the hotel register as Rufus Machfield. He had a number of other names, but it is only necessary that Machfield should be used to identify this particular character. The man had a reputation as a cardsharp, and, in the pursuit of his nefarious calling, had “worked” the ships plying between England and New York. He had also been convicted on two occasions as a professional gambler in Germany.