The impatient, excited crowd facing him moved restlessly, cursing or laughing with each swift turn of play; but he who wrought the spell neither spoke nor smiled, his face remaining fixed, immutable, as emotionless as carven granite.

Suddenly he glanced meaningly aside, and, nodding silently to a black-moustached fellow lounging beside the croupier, rose quickly from his chair.

The other as instantly slipped into it, his hands guarding the few remaining cards, while Farnham stood for a moment behind the chair, idly looking on.

There was no noticeable interruption to the game, and when the final card came gliding forth from the silver box, the imperturbable gamester turned deliberately away from the table, heedless of the desperate struggle about him, the curses and uproar, and faced the younger man still leaning against the wall.
"Mr.Winston ?" he questioned quietly.
Surprised by this unexpected notice, the other bowed in silent acknowledgment of his name.
A faint sarcastic smile curved the thin, compressed lips, while Farnham ran one hand carelessly through his slightly curling hair.
"I should like a few words with you in private," he explained politely.
"There is a vacant room we can use--this way." Astonished into yielding without protest, and at the same time feeling sufficiently eager to learn the cause for such a request, Winston unhesitatingly followed the other through the press, marking as he did so the slender erectness of that figure in advance, the square set of the broad shoulders, the easy air of authority with which he cleared the way.

Without ceremony Farnham flung aside a heavy brocaded curtain, glancing inquiringly into the smaller room thus revealed.