a cigar in his mouth, but
the weed was never lighted.

Bostwick noted the carefulness of the man's attire, but gained no clue
as to his calling. To avoid stupid staring he turned to watch a game
of faro. Its fascinations were rapidly engrossing his attentions and
luring him onward toward a reckless desire to tempt the goddess of
chance, when he presently beheld McCoppet turn away from his man and
saunter down the room.

A moment later Bostwick touched him on the shoulder.

"Beg pardon," he said, "Mr. McCoppet?"

McCoppet nodded. "My name."

"I'd like to introduce myself--J. Searle Bostwick," said the visitor.
"I expected to arrive, as I wrote you----"

"Glad to meet you, Bostwick," interrupted the other, putting forth his
hand. "Where are you putting up?"

"I haven't been able to find accommodations," answered Bostwick warmly.
"It's an outrage the way this town is conducted. I thought perhaps----"

"I'll fix you all right," cut in McCoppet. "Are you ready for a talk?
Nothing has waited for you to come."

"I came for an interview--in fact----"

"Private room back here," McCoppet announced, and he started to lead
the way, pausing for a moment near a faro table to cast a cold glance
at the dealer.

"Wonderfully interesting game," said Bostwick. "It seems as if a man
might possibly beat it."

There might have been a shade of contempt in the glance McCoppet cast
upon him. He merely said: "He can't."

Bostwick laughed. "You seem very positive."

McCoppet was moving on again.

"I own the game."

He owned everything here, and had his designs on two more places like
it, down the street. He almost owned the souls of many men, but gold
and power were the goals on which his eyes were riveted.

Bostwick glanced at him with newer interest as they passed down the
room, and so to a tight little office the walls of which were specially
deadened against the transmission of sound.

"Have anything to drink?" inquired the owner, before he took a chair,
"--whiskey, wine?"

"Thanks, no," said Bostwick, "not just yet." He took the chair to
which McCoppet waved him. "I must say I'm surprised," he admitted, "to
see the numbers of men, the signs of activity, and all the rest of it
in a camp so young. And by the way, it seems young Kent is away."

"Yes," said the gambler, settling deeply into his chair and sleepily
observing his visitor. "I sent him away last week."

Bostwick was eager.

"On something go