en they'll let up."

At that moment a peremptory bell rang from the room and a waiter
hurried up.

"There they are," said my friend, as the door opened. "There's Black
Jack and Stillwater Willie and Claude Terry and Charlie Haw."

Eagerly I looked in. The men were wearied, their faces haggard and
ghastly pale. Quickly and coolly they fingered the cards, but in their
hollow eyes burned the fever of the game, a game where golden eagles
were the chips and thousand-dollar jack-pots were unremarkable. No doubt
they had lost and won greatly, but they gave no sign. What did it
matter? In the dumps waiting to be cleaned up were hundreds of thousands
more; while in the ground were millions, millions.

All but Locasto were medium-sized men. Stillwater Willie was in
evening-dress. He wore a red tie in which glittered a huge diamond pin,
and yellow tan boots covered with mud.

"How did he get his name?" I asked.

"Well, you see, they say he was the only one that funked the Whitehorse
Rapids. He's a high flier, all right."

The other two were less striking. Haw was a sandy-haired man with
shifty, uneasy eyes; Terry of a bulldog type, stocky and powerful. But
it was Locasto who gripped and riveted my attention.

He was a massive man, heavy of limb and brutal in strength. There was a
great spread to his shoulders and a conscious power in his every
movement. He had a square, heavy chin, a grim, sneering mouth, a falcon
nose, black eyes that were as cold as the water in a deserted shaft. His
hair was raven dark, and his skin betrayed the Mexican strain in his
blood. Above the others he towered, strikingly masterful, and I felt
somehow the power that emanated from the man, the brute force, the
remorseless purpose.

Then the waiter returned with a tray of drinks and the door was closed.

"Well, you've seen him now," said Chester of the Police. "Your only
plan, if you want to speak to him, is to wait till the game breaks up.
When poker interferes with your business, to the devil with your
business. They won't be interrupted. Well, old man, if you can't be
good, be careful; and if you want me any time, ring up the town station.
Bye, bye."

He sauntered off. For a time I strolled from game to game, watching the
expressions on the faces of the players, and trying to take an interest
in the play. Yet my mind was ever on the closed door and my ear strained
to hear the click of chips. I heard the hoarse murmurs of their voices,
an