The bar-room of the blazing Poodle-Dog was thronged with men—men standing before the long, sloppy bar, men seated around rough tables, and men lounging here and there in groups about the heavily sanded floor. Uninterestedly glancing at these, Winston paused for an idle moment, his eyes fastened upon a whirling spectacle of dancers in the hall beyond. It formed a scene of mad revelry; yet in his present state of mind, he cared little for its frontier picturesqueness, and soon turned away, mounting the broad stairway down which, like an invitation, echoed the sharp click of ivory chips, and the excited voices of those absorbed in play. In both size and gorgeousness of decoration the rooms above were a surprise—a glitter of lights, a babel of noises, a continuous jumble of figures, while over all trembled a certain tension of excitement, terrible in its enchaining power. The very atmosphere seemed electric, filled with a deadly charm. The dull roar of undistinguishable voices sounded incessantly, occasionally punctuated by those sharp, penetrating tones with which the scattered dealers called varied turns of play, or by some deep oath falling unnoted from desperate lips as the unhappy end came. Winston, who had seen many similar scenes, glanced with his usual cool indifference at the various groups of players, careless except in his search, and pressing straight through the vibrating, excited throng, regardless of the many faces fronting him. He understood that Farnham dealt faro, and consequently moved directly down the long main room totally indifferent to all else. He discovered his particular goal at last, almost at the farther end of the great apartment, the crowd gathered about the faro table dense and silent. He succeeded in pressing in slowly through the outer fringe of players until he attained a position within ten feet of the dealer. There he halted, leaning against the wall, the narrow space between them unoccupied.
He saw before him a slenderly built, fashionably dressed figure, surmounted by clear-cut, smooth-shaven features—a man of thirty, possibly, decidedly aristocratic, perfectly self-controlled, his eyes cool, calculating, his hands swift, unhesitating in play. From some mysterious cause this masterful repose of the absorbed dealer began immediately to exercise a serious fascination over the man watching him. He did not appear altogether human, he seemed rather like some perfectly adjusted machine, able to think and plan, yet as unemotional as so much tempered steel. There was no perceptible change passing in that utterly impassive face, no brightening of those cold, observant eyes, no faintest movement of the tightly compressed lips. It was as though he wore a mask completely eclipsing every natural human feeling. Twice Winston, observing closely from his post of vantage slightly to the rear the swift action of those slender white fingers, could have sworn the dealer faced the wrong card, yet the dangerous trick was accomplished so quickly, so coolly, with never a lowering of the eyes, the twitching of a muscle, that a moment later the half-jealous watcher doubted the evidence of his own keen eyesight. As the final fateful card came silently gliding forth and was deliberately turned, face upward, amid bitter curses telling the disappointment of that breathless crowd, a young woman suddenly swept around the lower edge of the long table, brushing Winston with her flapping skirt as she passed, bent down, and whispered a half-dozen rapid sentences into the gambler's ear. The hands, already deftly shuffling the cards for another deal, scarcely paused in their operations, nor did those cool, observant eyes once desert the sea of excited faces before him. He asked a single brief question, nodded carelessly to the hastily spoken reply, and then, as the woman drew noiselessly away, Winston gazed directly into the startled black eyes of Señorita Mercedes. Instantly she smiled merrily, exhibiting her white teeth.
"Ah, señor," and she bent toward him in seductive whisper, "so my lady, de Americana, let you escape early to-night!"
Surprised at her recognition, he failed to answer immediately, and the girl touched him gently with her hand.
"De girls of my race never so cold, señor. Try me some time, an' see."
With a happy laugh and coquettish uplifting of the dark eyes, the dancer was as quickly gone, vanishing into the throng like a flash of red flame. For a breathless moment Winston's admiring gaze followed, conscious merely of her dark beauty, her slender, graceful figure. He was young, impressionable, and there was rare witchery about the girl which momentarily fascinated him. His attention shifted back to Farnham with a swift remembrance of the stern purpose which had brought him there. The gambler was playing out his case silently, emotionless as ever. If he had observed anything unusual, if he considered anything beyond his card-play, no eye could have detected it in that impassive countenance, those cold, expressionless eyes. Apparently he was a mere automaton, the sole symbol of life showing in the white fingers so deftly dealing the fateful pasteboards from the box. The impatient, excited crowd facing him moved restlessly, cursing or laughing with each swift turn of play; but he who wrought the spell neither spoke nor smiled, his face remaining fixed, immutable, as emotionless as carven granite. Suddenly he glanced meaningly aside, and, nodding silently to a black-moustached fellow lounging beside the croupier, rose quickly from his chair. The other as instantly slipped into it, his hands guarding the few remaining cards, while Farnham stood for a moment behind the chair, idly looking on. There was no noticeable interruption to the game, and when the final card came gliding forth from the silver box, the imperturbable gamester turned deliberately away from the table, heedless of the desperate struggle about him, the curses and uproar, and faced the younger man still leaning against the wall.
"Mr. Winston?" he questioned quietly.
Surprised by this unexpected notice, the other bowed in silent acknowledgment of his name.
A faint sarcastic smile curved the thin, compressed lips, while Farnham ran one hand carelessly through his slightly curling hair.
"I should like a few words with you in private," he explained politely. "There is a vacant room we can use—this way."