had rounded corners, and in the corner of each card was a statement of its value. Such a pack, indeed, as is generally used by properly constituted persons for the game of poker. There was nothing about the cards in any way remarkable, so far as I could see, except that on their backs was painted a large, bluish-red rose, as it seemed to me, by hand. But according to the constable they had a history.
"The Colonel won thousands with those cards."
"By the exercise of his skill?"
"It's as you choose to call it They're hand-painted" (I thought they were), "and excellently painted too. If you look at them closely you'll see that the rose is not placed in exactly the same position on the back of each of them. There's just a shade of difference."
I did look at them closely. It was as the constable said. But it needed good eyes to observe the fact, the difference in position was so slight.
"He used to travel up and down the line to Brighton."
"That's odd I'm going down to Brighton myself by the 2.30 this afternoon. I live there."
"Ah! He was well known upon that road. They used to think he was a big pot in the City who liked his hand at cards. City gentlemen often have a game as they come up to town. If s a regular thing. It was a well-known pack, the Colonel's. He won his fare, and a bit over, many a time."
"And where is this enterprising person now?"
"He's dead, that's where he is. Francis Farmer
