se, I guess. I've a notion you'll find plenty of room. Chips, no? All
right; goin' to play a tidy game? Good!"

The four men, having swallowed their drink, followed in the footsteps of
the others.

There was something very brisk and business-like about this
gambling-hell. Early settlers doubtless remember in the days of
"prohibition," when four per cent. beer was supposed to be the only
beverage of the country, and before rigid legislation, backed by the
armed force of the North-West Mounted Police, swept these frightful
pollutions from the fair face of the prairie, how they thrived on the
encouragement of gambling and the sale of contraband spirits. The West
is a cleaner country now, thanks to the untiring efforts of the police.

In number two "Poker" John and his companions were already getting to
work when Bill and his friends entered. Beyond a casual remark they
seemed to take little notice of each other. One and all were eager to
begin the play.

A deep silence quickly fell upon the room. It was the silence of
suppressed excitement. A silence only broken by monosyllabic and almost
whispered betting and "raising" as the games proceeded. An hour passed
thus. At the table where Lablache and John Allandale were playing the
usual luck prevailed. The money-lender seemed unable to do wrong, and at
the other table Bunning-Ford was faring correspondingly badly. Pedro
Mancha, the Mexican, a man of obscure past and who lived no one quite
knew how, but who always appeared to find the necessary to gamble with,
was the favored one of dame Fortune. Already he had heaped before him a
pile of "bills" and I.O.U.'s most of which bore "Lord" Bill's signature.
Looking on at either table, no one from outward signs could have said
which way the luck was going. Only the scribblings of the pencils upon
the memo pads and the gradual accumulation of the precious slips of
paper before Lablache at one table and the wild-eyed, dark-skinned
Mexican at the other, told the story of the ruin which was surely being
accomplished.

At length, with a loser's privilege, Bunning-Ford, after glancing at his
watch, rose from the table. His lean face was in no way disturbed. He
seemed quite indifferent to his losses.

"I'll quit you, Pedro," he said, smiling lazily down at the Mexican.
"You're a bit too hot for me to-day."

The dark-skinned man smiled a vague, non-committing smile and displayed
a double row of immaculate teeth.

"Good. You shall h