Pembroke, however, although he would have sworn that nothing Ahlberg could do in the way of rascality could surprise him, was as yet amazed, astounded, and almost puzzled by the promptness with which Ahlberg acquiesced in the status which Pembroke established. Ahlberg made no protest of innocence--he did not bluster, or grow desperate, or break down hysterically, as even a very bad man might under the circumstances. He simply saw that if he said anything, he might feel the weight of Pembroke’s arm. Nothing that he could have said or done was as convincing of his thorough moral obtuseness as the way in which he accepted his own exposure. Just then the landlord opened the door. “Mr. Pembroke, your horse is at the door. It’s going to be a mighty bad night though--there’s a cloud coming up. You’d better stay and join them gentlemen in their game.” “No, I thank you,” replied Pembroke, and turning to Ahlberg. “Of course, after what has passed, it is out of the question that I should fight you. Good God! I’d just as soon think of fighting a jail bird! Don’t take too long to get out of this county. Good night, Mr. Hibbs--good night--good night.” Hibbs accompanied him out, and stood by him while he mounted. “Mr. Pembroke,” he said, holding his hat in his hand, “I’m very much obliged for what you have done for me, and what you have promised. I promise you I’ll never touch a card for money again as long as I live.” “And don’t touch a card at all with such an infernal rascal as Ahlberg,” answered Pembroke, altogether forgetting sundry agreeable games he had enjoyed with Ahlberg in Paris, and even in that very county--but it had been a good while ago, and Ahlberg had not tried any tricks on him.