enuous
but futile endeavor to procure accommodations for the night.

There was no one with leisure to listen to his tirade on the shameful
inadequacy of the attributes of civilization in the camp, and after one
brief attempt to arouse civic indignation against Van for his acts of
deliberate lawlessness, he perceived the ease with which he might
commit an error and render himself ridiculous. He dropped all hope of
publicly humiliating the horseman and deferred his private vengeance
for a time more opportune.

Wholly at a loss to cope with a situation wherein he found himself so
utterly neglected and unknown, despite the influential position he
occupied both in New York and Washington, he resolved to throw himself
entirely upon the mercies of McCoppet.

He knew his man only through their correspondence, induced by Beth's
brother, Glenmore Kent. Inquiring at the bank, he was briefly directed
to the largest saloon of the place. When he entered the bar he found
it swarming full of men, miners, promoters, teamsters, capitalists,
gamblers, lawyers, and--the Lord alone knew what. The air was a reek
of smoke and fumes of liquor. A blare of alleged music shocked the
atmosphere. Men drunk and men sober, all were talking mines and gold,
the greatness of the camp, the richness of the latest finds, and the
marvel of their private properties. Everyone had money, everyone had
chunks of ore to show to everyone else.

At the rear were six tables with layouts for games of chance. Faro,
"klondike," roulette, stud-poker, almost anything possibly to be
desired was there. All were in full blast. Three deep the men were
gathered about the wheel and the "tiger." Gold money in stacks stood
at every dealer's hand. Bostwick had never seen so much metal currency
in all his life.

He asked for McCoppet at the bar.

"Opal? Somewhere back--that's him there, talkin' to the guy with the
fur on his jaw," informed the barkeeper, making a gesture with his
thumb. "What's your poison?"

"Nothing, thank you," answered Bostwick, who started for his man, but
halted for McCoppet to finish his business with his friend.

The man on whom Bostwick was gazing was a tall, slender, slightly
stooped individual of perhaps forty-five, with a wonderful opal in his
tie, from which he had derived his sobriquet. He was clean-shaved, big
featured, and gifted with a pair of heavy-lidded eyes as lustreless as
old buttons. He had never been seen without