Except for the heavy iron poker by the grate, there was nothing that would serve his purpose, and he must pass the gambler to reach that.

Still fumbling with his collar he paused irresolutely, midway of the room.

Pride and self-respect would have taken him from the place but hate and fear kept him there.
Gilmore threw himself down in a chair before the fire and lit a cigar.
In spite of himself Langham watched him, fascinated.

There was such conscious power and mastery in everything the gambler did, that he felt the various purposes that were influencing him collapse with miserable futility.

What was the use of struggling?
"You can do as you blame please in this matter, Marsh," said the gambler at length.