Bostwick was breathing hard. He maintained a show of calm.
"The morning's a little bit soon for me to turn around. I'll bring it when I can."
McCoppet arose. The interview was ended. He added:
"Have a drink?"
"I'll wait," said Bostwick, "till we can drink a toast to the 'Laughing Water' claim."
McCoppet opened the door, waved Bostwick into the crowded gaming room, and was about to follow when his roving gaze abruptly lighted on a figure in the place—a swarthy, half-breed Piute Indian, standing in front of the wheel and roulette layout.
Quickly stepping back inside the smaller apartment, the gambler pulled down his hat. His face was the color of ashes.
"So long. See you later," he murmured, and he closed the door without a sound.
Bostwick, wholly at a loss to understand his sudden dismissal, lingered for a moment only in the place, then made his way out to the street, and went to the postoffice, where he found a letter from Glenmore Kent. Intent upon securing the needed funds from Beth with the smallest possible delay, he dropped the letter, unread, in his pocket and headed for the house where Beth was living. He walked, however, no more than half a block before he altered his mind. Pausing for a moment on the sidewalk, he turned on his heel and went briskly to his own apartments, where he performed an unusual feat.
First he read the letter from Kent. It was dated from the newest camp in the desert and was filled with glittering generalities concerning riches about to be discovered. It urged him, in case he had arrived in Goldite, to hasten southward forthwith—"and bring a bunch of money." Glenmore's letters always appealed for money—a fact which Bostwick had remembered.