He saw McKeever's ferretlike glance of interrogation and distrust--a thief's distrust of an honest man--but Ronicky's good nature did not falter in outward seeming for an instant.

He swept up his hand, bet a hundred, with apparently foolish recklessness, on three sevens, and then had to buy fresh chips from McKeever.
The coming of the girl seemed to have completely upset his equilibrium as a gambler--certainly it made him bet with the recklessness of a madman.

And Frederic Fernand, glancing in from time to time, watched the demolition of Ronicky's pile of chips, with growing complacence.
Ronicky Doone had allowed himself to take heed of the room about him, and Frederic Fernand liked him for it.

His beautiful rooms were pearls cast before swine, so far as most of his visitors were concerned.

A moment later Ronicky had risen, went toward the wall and drew a dagger from its sheath.
It was a full twelve inches in length, that blade, and it came to a point drawn out thinner than the eye could follow.