"Faro, sir."
Challoner ascended swiftly to the second floor, and paused at one room whose door was open.
"How long?" he inquired, thrusting in his head, by way of greeting to the group at the table.
Four of the men there did not glance up from their cards; hollow-eyed, cigars between their teeth, they were alive only to the hundredth chance that still eluded them. The fifth man, a railroad president, coatless, alone nodded to Challoner, and said sententiously:—
"Forty hours—for me."
Half way down the corridor Challoner met Pemmican, head card-dealer of Cradlebaugh's, a man with a pasty face, a low brow and shifty eyes—a man who knew his business. This Pemmican seemed the all-and-all of Cradlebaugh's, apparently general factotum; but though he simulated the appearance of an owner, in reality he was a servile servant stamped with a dread of the pseudo-Cradlebaugh, of the man higher up. Nevertheless, whoever controlled the destinies of this gambling-house had chosen him wisely.
Challoner came at once to the point.
"Pemmican, I want some money—about—" and broke off abruptly, for the other was eyeing him coldly.
Instinctively Pemmican of the low brow knew that the game was up with Challoner; moreover, he saw that, although the man seemed sober, in reality he was very drunk. He walked away quickly, dismissing him with:—
"I'm sorry, sir, but it's against the rules. I can't——"