In the brief eight months since Claire had plunged into the vortex of the Speedway’s gaming life she had become a victim of the fever of it all. Her original purpose had been the simple betterment of her fortunes and those of her mother. She had desired nothing more. For, in her heart, she had no sympathy with the reputation of the place. The whole idea had been cold business. But by degrees her viewpoint had changed, and the rich youth in her had gained ascendency. The place, the life, the game, swiftly took possession of her, and all of the dead father latent in her young soul had stirred to an irresistible passion. The lure of that centre table she had made hers, the rattle of the chips, the feel of the delicate pasteboards in her nimble fingers, were all things she had come to live for. She had learned to love it all with a real passion.
In the process of time there had been scarcely a moment of disillusion. Her beauty had gained her a deep place in the hearts of the men. And the women, whatever their real feelings, bowed before a creature whom the other sex had set on so exalted a pedestal. Then her skill; her spirit. At the realisation of these things even the women stood by in frank admiration, while her amazing good fortune filled them with superlative envy.
Claire had been staunch and true to herself and her purpose. Never once had there fallen a lapse. She eschewed the vices she witnessed in others of her sex who haunted the place, while she gave full run to her capacity for sheer enjoyment. Never once in the thirsty, heated atmosphere of the place had she permitted any beverage more harmful than a mineral water to pass her pretty lips. She revelled in the scent of the tobacco with which men and women filled the atmosphere. But she had not the slightest inclination to essay the mildest of cigarettes herself. Then, too, she had swiftly discovered herself to be possessed of an unerring instinct in defence against the ardent and often crude advances she was constantly encountering amongst the wild youth with which she found herself surrounded.
She had been dubbed “The Saint” from the earliest days of her career at the Speedway. And it was a natural enough appellation. Her given name had suggested, and her methods had inspired. It was the jealous minds of her own sex which had coined the designation. And the manhood of the city had taken it up in real affection.
Before passing to her table Claire came over to the seat where McLagan’s great figure was lounging. And her greeting of him had in it no lessening of their old friendliness.
“Why, Ivor,” she cried, “I didn’t guess you’d be along in town. This is real fine on a party night. And—and”—her lighting eyes surveyed his evening suit—“say, don’t you look swell? You see, I always sort of expect you in your tough old pea-jacket.”
The man’s plain face was alight with undisguised pleasure. He shook his head, and his small eyes twinkled.
“Don’t just say a thing, Claire,” he said quietly. “If you knew the way I feel I guess you’d hand me all the pity you know. I am hating myself under a boiled shirt, but I had to be around to-night anyway. And I’m glad. I’d have missed that dandy gown of yours else, and the picture you’re looking. You’ve got Beacon plumb dazzled and me well-nigh blinded.”
The girl flushed and laughed, but she left his compliment unanswered.