," he
explained, "and had no conception you would look at it that way.
However, we are perfectly willing to be liberal--how much do you want?"

For a moment Winston stared straight at him, his lips firmly set, his
gray eyes grown hard as steel. Then he deliberately pushed back his
chair, and rose to his feet, one clinched hand resting on the table.

"You may not fully understand my position," he began quietly, "for in
all probability such a conception is utterly beyond you, but I do n't
want a dollar, nor a cent. Good-night."

He turned deliberately toward the entrance, but the thoroughly
astounded gambler leaped to his feet with one hand extended in sudden
protest. He was angry, yet believed he perceived a great light shining
through the darkness.

"Hold on, Winston," he exclaimed anxiously; "just a moment. I 'd
totally forgotten that you were the son of a millionaire, and therefore
possessed no desire for money like the rest of us more ordinary
mortals. Now, let's be sensible. By God, you must want something!
What is it?"

"You have received my final answer. I am not in the market."

Farnham crushed a bitter oath between his gleaming teeth, and flung his
sodden cigar-butt to the floor.

"Do you actually mean you are crazy enough to go with Hicks, after all
I 've told you?"

"I propose to discover for myself whether his claim is just. If it is,
I 'm with him."

The gambler caught his breath sharply, for an instant utterly
speechless, his face pallid with rage. Then the fierce, angry words
burst forth in unrestrained torrent through the calm of his accustomed
self-control.

"Oh, you 'll play hell, you infernal cur. Do it, and I 'll guarantee
you 'll get a bullet in the brain, even if you are old Winston's son.
We 've got a way of taking care of your kind out here when you get too
gay. You 're with him, are you? Well, I 'm damned if you ever get any
chance even to sit in the game. We 'll get you, and get you early, see
if we don't. There are other things besides money in this world, and
you 've got your price, just as well as every other man. Perhaps it's
silk, perhaps it's calico; but you bet it's something, for you 're no
angel. By God, I believe I could name it, even now."

Winston wheeled, his right hand thrust deeply into his coat pocket, his
face sternly set.

"What, for instance?"

"Well,--just to take a chance,--Beth Norvell,"

Farnham never forgot the flame of those gray eyes,