For once Malone blessed the woman's telepathic talent. He, Boyd and
Barbara Wilson formed a kind of Guard of Honor around the chair which
Her Majesty occupied. Boyd handed over the new pile of chips, and was
favored with a royal smile.
"This is a poker game, ma'am," the dealer said to her, quietly.
"I know, I know," Her Majesty said with a trace of testiness. "Roll
'em."
The dealer stared at her popeyed. Next to her, the gentleman in the
cowboy outfit turned. "Ma'am, are you from around these parts?" he said.
"Oh, no," the Queen said. "I'm from England."
"England?" The cowboy looked puzzled. "You don't seem to have any
accent, ma'am," he said at last.
"Certainly not," the Queen said. "I've lost that; I've been over here a
great many years."
Malone hoped fervently that Her Majesty wouldn't mention just how many
years. He didn't think he could stand it, and he was almost grateful for
the cowboy's nasal twang.
"Oil?" he said.
"Oh, no," Her Majesty said. "The Government is providing this money."
"The Government?"
"Certainly," Her Majesty said. "The FBI, you know."
There was a long silence.