Beth Norvell

The bar-room of the blazing Poodle-Dog was thronged with men--men

standing before the long, sloppy bar, men seated around rough tables,

and men lounging here and there in groups about the heavily sanded

floor. Uninterestedly glancing at these, Winston paused for an idle

moment, his eyes fastened upon a whirling spectacle of dancers in the

hall beyond. It formed a scene of mad revelry; yet in his present

state of mind, he cared little for its frontier picturesqueness, and

soon turned away, mounting the broad stairway down which, like an

invitation, echoed the sharp click of ivory chips, and the excited

voices of those absorbed in play. In both size and gorgeousness of

decoration the rooms above were a surprise--a glitter of lights, a

babel of noises, a continuous jumble of figures, while over all

trembled a certain tension of excitement, terrible in its enchaining

power. The very atmosphere seemed electric, filled with a deadly

charm. The dull roar of undistinguishable voices sounded incessantly,

occasionally punctuated by those sharp, penetrating tones with which

the scattered dealers called varied turns of play, or by some deep oath

falling unnoted from desperate lips as the unhappy end came. Winston,

who had seen many similar scenes, glanced with his usual cool

indifference at the various groups of players, careless except in his

search, and pressing straight through the vibrating, excited throng,

regardless of the many faces fronting him. He understood that Farnham

dealt faro, and consequently moved directly down the long main room

totally indifferent to all else. He discovered his particular goal at

last, almost at the farther end of the great apartment, the crowd

gathered about the faro table dense and silent. He succeeded in

pressing in slowly through the outer fringe of players until he

attained a position within ten feet of the dealer. There he halted,

leaning against the wall, the narrow space between them unoccupied.

He saw before him a slenderly built, fashionably dressed figure,

surmounted by clear-cut, smooth-shaven features--a man of thirty,

possibly, decidedly aristocratic, perfectly self-controlled, his eyes

cool, calculating, his hands swift, unhesitating in play. From some

mysterious cause this masterful repose of the absorbed dealer began

immediately to exercise a serious fascination over the man watching

him. He did not appear altogether human, he seemed rather like some

perfectly adjusted machine, able to think and plan, yet as unemotional

as so much tempered steel. There was no perceptible change passing in

that utterly impassive face, no brightening of those cold, observant

eyes, no faintest movement of the tightly compressed lips. It was as

though he wore a mask completely eclipsing every natural human feeling.

Twice Winston, observing closely from his post of vantage slightly to

the rear the swift action of those slender white fingers, could have

sworn the dealer faced the wrong card, yet the dangerous trick was

accomplished so quickly, so coolly, with never a lowering of the eyes,

the twitching of a muscle, that a moment later the half-jealous watcher

doubted the evidence of his own keen eyesight. As the final fateful

card came silently gliding forth and was deliberately turned, face

upward, amid bitter curses telling the disappointment of that

breathless crowd, a young woman suddenly swept around the lower edge of

the long table, brushing Winston with her flapping skirt as she passed,

bent down, and whispered a half-dozen rapid sentences into the

gambler's ear. The hands, already deftly shuffling the cards for

another deal, scarcely paused in their operations, nor did those cool,

observant eyes once desert the sea of excited faces before him. He

asked a single brief question, nodded carelessly to the hastily spoken

reply, and then, as the woman drew noiselessly away, Winston gazed

directly into the startled black eyes of Señorita Mercedes. Instantly

she smiled merrily, exhibiting her white teeth.