“Now, then,” he said to Chick, as the two again stood together, “you follow these men over and locate the horse. You may report to me at the house at eight o’clock in the morning.”
As Chick placed himself in a position to watch every movement of the men he was shadowing, Nick stepped into a restaurant and ordered a liberal meal. This concluded, he walked into a saloon next door and sat down in a private stall.
Five minutes later a respectable-looking, middle-aged business man walked out of the stall and took his way toward one of the most popular gambling dens in that portion of the city.
The place was crowded, and faro, roulette, and stud-poker tables were running full blast.
As Nick supposed it would be, the talk was all about the race.
He bought a stack of white chips, and sat down at the end of a faro table, playing very slowly and listening to every word that was said around him.
“Well, old sport,” said the dealer, familiarly, to a well-dressed gentleman who entered and bought a stack of yellows, “you must have struck luck to-day. Any news?”
“No,” said the person addressed, with a laugh, “nothing except that a fellow bought Denver Bay for a hundred at fifteen to one.”
“That ain’t so bad,” said a player at the opposite end of the table. “The horse may win.[{25}]”
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said the man behind the yellow chips, “I’ll go you twenty to one that the horse don’t get a show.”