“Thank you, I am not drinking anything to-night, Tom. I merely dropped in to ask a question or two.”
“Fire away.”
“Have you seen a young fellow hanging around here lately—smooth-faced boy, dark eyes and dark hair—dresses pretty well?”
“Why, yes; that’s the kid. He’s here now.”
“Alone?”
“Well, hardly; the Professor has sort of adopted him, I reckon; anyhow, they run together most of the time.”
Brant’s face flushed as if the man had smitten him, and with the narrowing of his eyes the past laid fast hold upon him and once more the man-quelling demon was in possession.
“There is only one ‘Professor,’ I take it.” He spoke softly, as one speaks to a little child. “You mean Jim Harding?”
“Sure; her brother. You ought to know him, if anybody does.”
“Yes, I know him.” The recusant sinner turned his back to the bar and let his gaze go adrift down the long room. It was comfortably filled. There were pairs and trios and quartettes at the card tables; little groups around the marble games and roulette boards; a front rank of sitters about the faro table, with a standing reserve playing over the shoulders of those in the chairs; and in the midst an uneasy throng revolving about the various centres of attraction, like the slow-moving figures in a timeless minuet.