"Big sport. He's rich—or he was; I heard he just lost a string of race-horses. He makes a fortune and he spends it overnight. He's on his way 'inside' now with a big saloon outfit. That's Letty, his girl."
Another man laughed under his breath, saying: "Old Sam won't bet a nickel unless she's with him. He's superstitious."
"I guess he has reason to be. She's his rudder," the first speaker explained.
Mr. Kirby rapped sharply upon the table with the steel hook that served as his left hand, then, when a waiter cleared a passageway through the crowd, he mutely invited the house employees to drink. The dealer declined, the lookout and the case-keeper ordered whisky, and Kirby signified by a nod that the same would do for him. But his daughter laid a hand upon his arm. He argued with her briefly, then he shrugged and changed his order.
"Make it a cigar," he said, with a smile. "Boss's orders."
There was a ripple of laughter.
"Sam's a bad actor when he's drinking," one of Pierce's informants told him. "Letty keeps him pretty straight, but once in a while he gets away. When he does—oh, BOY!"
Long after he had returned to his tasks the memory of that still-faced girl in the foul, tobacco-laden atmosphere of the gambling-hall remained to bother Pierce Phillips; he could not get over his amazement and his annoyance at mistaking her for a—well, for a good girl.
Early in the morning, when he wearily went forth in quest of breakfast and a bed, he learned that the game at the Ophir was still going on.
"I want you to hire enough packers to take this stuff over in one trip—two at the most. Engage all you can. Offer any price." The Countess was speaking. She had snatched a few hours' sleep and was now back at the hotel as fresh as ever.