new the bloodless,
impassive face of the professional gambler as well as he knew the
anxious, reckless ones of his victims. His knowledge had told him
little good of this breed of parasites who preyed upon a credulous
public.

The traffic of this room was crooked business by day as well as by
night. A partition ran across the rear of the back parlor which showed
no opening but two small holes with narrow shelves at the bottom. Back
of that was the paraphernalia of the pool-room, another device to
separate customers from their money by playing the "ponies."

As Clay looked around it struck him that the personnel of this
gambling-den's patrons was a singularly depressing one. All told there
were not a dozen respectable-looking people in the room. Most of those
present were derelicts of life, the failures of a great city washed up
by the tide. Some were pallid, haggard wretches clinging to the
vestiges of a prosperity that had once been theirs. Others were
hard-faced ruffians from the underworld. Not a few bore the marks of
the drug victim. All of those playing had a manner of furtive
suspicion. They knew that if they risked their money the house would
rob them. Yet they played.

Bromfield bought a small stack of chips at the roulette table.

"Won't you take a whirl at the wheel?" he asked Lindsay.

"Thanks, no, I believe not," his guest answered.

The Westerner was a bit disgusted at his host's lack of discrimination.
"Does he think I'm a soft mark too?" he wondered. "If this is what he
calls high life I've had more than enough already."

His disgust was shared by the clubman. Bromfield had never been in
such a dive before. His gambling had been done in gilded luxury.
While he touched shoulders with this motley crew his nostrils twitched
with fastidious disdain. He played, but his interest was not in the
wheel. Durand had promised that there would be women and that one of
them should be bribed to make a claim upon Clay at the proper moment.
He had an unhappy feeling that the gang politician had thrown him down
in this. If so, what did that mean? Had Durand some card up his
sleeve? Was he using him as a catspaw to rake in his own chestnuts?

Clarendon Bromfield began to weaken. He and Clay were the only two men
in the room in evening clothes. His questing eye fell on tough,
scarred faces that offered his fears no reassurance. Any one or all of
them might be agents of Durand.

He shoved all