“I should say! He's a reg'lar. Used to bet in Mullen's book last year when I penciled for him.”
The clerk brought the betting sheet and ran his finger down a long row of figures.
“That's the bet. A thousand calls three on The Dutchman. His badge number was 11,785. Yes, that's the bet; I remember Billy Cass takin' it. You see,” he continued, explanatory of his vivid memory, “he's gen'rally a piker—plays a long shot—an' his limit's twenty dollars; so, when he comes next a favorite that day with a cool thou' it give me stoppage of the heart. Damn'd if I didn't get cold feet. Bet yer life it wasn't Billy's money—not a plunk of it; he had worked an angel, an' was playin' the farmer's stuff for him.”
“Are you sure, Mr. Hagen—did you know the man?” Crane asked.
“Know him? All the way—tall, slim, blue eyes, light mustache, hand like a woman.”
“That's the man,” affirmed Farrell; “that's the man—I saw him yesterday in your place.”
Crane stared. For once in his life the confusion of an unexpected event momentarily unsettled him.
“I thought you identified—which man in the bank did you mean?”
“I saw three: a short, dark, hairless kid”—Alan Porter, mentally ticked off Crane; “a tall, dark, heavy-shouldered chap, that, judged by his mug, would have made a fair record with the gloves—”
“Was not that the man you identified as having made the bet?” interrupted Crane, taking a step forward in his intense eagerness.