The first speaker was a man of a decided English cast of countenance, and the profusion of side whiskers which he wore strengthened his Britannic look.
He was well dressed, handsome, though somewhat haggard, as if he suffered from want of sleep, or had some cankering care gnawing at his heart.
A gold ring, set with turquoise and diamonds, sparkled on his finger, and his watch chain was heavy and massive. The gambler was probably forty years of age, which was ten or twelve more than his companion, and his face bore traces of drink and dissipation; but there was a shrewd, good-natured twinkle in his eye which showed that he was not a bad-natured man in the main. In reality, Dan Markham was known all over the Pacific Slope as a good fellow.
Retiring to the lower end of the room, the first speaker accepted a glass of wine which was handed him by a negro waiter who attended on the supper-table.
"You were saying, Mr.—er—Mr.——" he began.
"Markham," replied that individual.
"Ah, yes! Thank you! Well, you were observing——"
"Just this: I know why a man plays, even though he's well fixed and has got heaps of shug."
"Do you?"
"Yes, Mr.—er—Mr." continued Markham, imitating his companion's tone in rather a mocking manner.