Charlie has in vain tried to cross the invisible barrier which fences her from the men around her. To-night he is as unlucky in his heavy play, as in arousing any passion in that wonderful beauty of unexplained identity. The management will answer no questions. This nightly excitement feeds on itself. "French Charlie" has been drinking deeply. His play grows more unlucky. Valois moves to the table, to quietly induce Hardin to leave. Some inner foreboding tells Valois there is danger in the gambling duel of the two men he watches. As he forces his way in, Charlie, dashing a last handful of gold upon the red, turns his ferocious eyes on Hardin. The lawyer calmly waits the turn of the arrow. Some quick presentiment reaches the mind of the woman. Her nerves are shaken with the strain of long repression. The arrow trembles on the line in stopping. The queen's eyes, for the first time, catch the burning glances of Philip Hardin. "French Charlie," with an oath, grasps the hand of the woman. She is raking in his lost coins before paying Hardin's bet. It is his last handful of gold.
Maddened with drink and his losses, Charlie yields to jealousy of his victorious neighbor. "French Charlie" roughly twists the wrist of the woman. With a sharp shriek, she snatches the dagger from her bosom. She draws it over the back of the gambler's hand. He howls with pain. Like a flash he tears a knife from his bosom. He springs around the table toward the woman. With a loud scream, she jumps back toward the wall. She seeks to save herself, casting golden showers on the floor, in a rattling avalanche. Before the ready hireling desperadoes of the haunt can seize Charlie, the affrighted circle scatters. Valois' eye catches, the flash of a silver-mounted derringer. Its barking report rings out as "French Charlie's" right arm drops to his side. His bowie-knife falls ringing on the floor. A despairing curse is heard. The Creole gambler snatches, with the other hand, a pistol. He springs like a lion on Philip Hardin. One step back Hardin retreats. No word comes from his closed lips. The mate of the derringer rings out loudly Charlie's death warrant. The gambler crashes to the floor. His heart's blood floods the scattered gold. The pistol is yet clenched in his stiffened left hand. Valois rushes to Hardin. He brushes him aside, and springs to the side of the "Queen of the El Dorado." She falls senseless in his arms. In a few moments the motley crowd has been hurried from the doors. The great entrances are barred. The frightened women dealers seek their dressing-rooms. All fear the results of this brawl. Their cheeks are ashy pale under paint and powder. The treasures are swiftly swept from the gaming tables by the nimble-witted croupiers. Hardin and Valois are left with the unconscious fallen beauty. A couple of the lately organized city police enter and take charge. Even the blood stained gold is gathered from the floor. Light after light is turned out. The main hall has at last no tenants but the night watchman and the police, waiting by the dead gambler. He lies prone on the floor, awaiting his last judge, the city coroner. This genial official is sought from his cards and cups, to certify the causes of death of the outcast of society. A self-demonstrating problem. The gaping wound tells its story.
Valois is speechless and stunned with the quickness of the deadly quarrel. He gloomily watches Hardin supporting the fainting woman. Slowly her eyes unclose. They meet Hardin's in one long, steadfast, inscrutable glance. She shudders and says, "Take me away." She covers her siren face with her jewelled hands, to avoid the sight of the waxy features and stiffening form of the thing lying there. Ten minutes ago it was the embodiment of wildest human passion and tiger-like activity. Vale, "French Charlie."
Hardin has quickly sent for several influential friends. On their arrival he is permitted to leave, escorted by a policeman. The shaken sorceress, whose fatal beauty has thrown two determined men against each other in a sudden duel to the death, walks at his side. There is a bond of blood sealed between them. It is the mere sensation of a night; the talk of an idle day. On the next evening the "El Dorado" is thronged with a great multitude. It is eager to gaze on the wondrous woman's face, for which "French Charlie" died. Their quest is vain. Another daughter of the Paphian divinity presides at the shrine of rouge et noir. The blood-stains are effaced from the floor. A fresh red mound in the city cemetery is the only relic of French Charlie. Philip Hardin, released upon heavy bail, awaits a farcical investigation. After a few days he bears no legal burden of this crime. Only the easy load upon his conscience. Although the mark of Cain sets up a barrier between him and his fellows, and the murder calls for the vengeance of God, Philip Hardin goes his way with unclouded brow. His eyes have a strange new light in them.
The "Queen of the El Dorado" sits no more at the wheel of fortune. Day succeeds to day. Nightly expectation is balked. Her absent charms are magnified in description. The memory of the graceful, dazzling Hortense Duval fades from the men who struggle around the gaming boards of the great "El Dorado." She never shows her charming face again in the hall.
The secret of the disappearance of this mysterious sovereign of chance is known to but few. It is merely surmised by others. To Maxime Valois the bloody occurrence has borne fruits of importance. As soon as some business is arranged, the shadowy barrier of this tragedy divides the two men. Though slight, it is yet such that Valois decides to go to Stockton. The San Joaquin valley offers him a field. Land matters give ample scope to his talents. The investment in lands can be better arranged from there. The Creole is glad to cast his lot in the new community. By sympathy, many Southerners crowd in. They gain control of the beautiful prairies from which the herds of elk and antelope are disappearing.
Philip Hardin's safety is assured. With no open breach of friendship between them, Maxime still feels estranged. He visits the scene of his future residence. His belongings follow him. It was an intuition following a tacit understanding. Man instinctively shuns the murderer.
Maxime never asked of the future of the vanished queen of the El Dorado. In his visits to San Francisco he finds that few cross Philip Hardin's threshold socially. Even these are never bid to come again. Is there a hidden queen in the house on the hill? Rumor says so.
Rising in power, Philip Hardin steadily moves forward. He asks no favors. He seeks no friends. All unmindful is he of the tattle that a veiled lady of elegant appearance sometimes walks under the leafy bowers shading his lovely home.
The excitable populace find new food for gossip. There are more residences than one in San Francisco, where dreamy luxury is hidden within the unromantic wooden boxes called residences.