"He can't keep his hands still," said White-Eye, shrugging his shoulder toward Pino. "Ever meet Pino. No? Well, he's a artist—when it comes to drawin'—"
Pino dropped the bits of paper, rose, and shook hands indifferently with Baxter. As Pino sat down again, Baxter stooped and casually picked up the torn pad-leaf on which he had written White-Eye's address. He turned to his desk and taking a box of cigars from a drawer passed it around. White-Eye's pin-point pupils glittered. Pony Baxter seemed mighty anxious to get those two bits of paper out of sight. White-Eye had seen him drop them in the drawer as he opened it.
"Where did you send The Spider?" asked White-Eye quickly.
"Send him! Didn't send him anywhere. He said he was going back to his hotel."
White-Eye blinked. He knew that The Spider was not stopping at a hotel. For some reason Baxter had lied.
"How's the game to-night?" queried White-Eye.
"Quiet," replied Baxter.
"Any strangers inside?"
"No—not the kind of strangers you mean."
"Then I reckon we'll take a look in. Don't mind takin' a whirl at the wheel myself."