“Damn him!” thought the gambler.  “I’ll fix him yet!” And he puffed at his cigar viciously.

He had made sure that North’s mysterious visitor was Evelyn Langham, for when she left the building he himself had followed her.  Out of the dregs of his nature this foolish mad passion of his had arisen to torture him; he had never spoken with Langham’s wife, probably she knew him by sight, nothing more; but still his game, the waiting game he had been forced to play, was working itself out better than he had even hoped!  At last he had Marshall Langham where he wanted him, where he could make him feel his power.  Langham would not be able to raise the money required to cover up those forgeries, and on the basis of silence he would make his bargain with the lawyer.

Gilmore pondered this problem for the better part of an hour, considering it from every conceivable angle; then suddenly the expression of his face changed, he forgot for the moment his ambitions and his desires, his hatred and his love; he thought he heard the click of the old-fashioned latch on the front gate.  He remembered that it could be raised only with difficulty.  Next he heard the sound of footsteps approaching the house.  They seemed to come haltingly down the narrow brick path which the wind had swept clear of snow.

Mr. Gilmore was blessed with a steadiness of nerve known to but few men, yet the hour and the occasion had their influence with him.  He stood erect:  now the steps which had paused for a moment seemed to recede; it was as if the intruder, whoever he might be, had come almost to the front door and had then, for some inexplicable reason, gone back to the street.  Gilmore even imagined him as standing there with his hand on the latch of the gate.  He was tempted to rouse his two companions, but he did not, and then, as he still stood with his senses tense, he heard the steps again approach the front door.  With a glance in the direction of the colonel and his nephew to assure himself that they still slept, Gilmore rather shamefacedly slipped his right hand under the tails of his coat, tiptoed into the hall and paused there close by the parlor door.  The steps outside continued, he heard the porch floor give under a weight, and then some one rapped softly on the door.

Gilmore waited an instant; the rap was repeated; he stepped to the door, shot the bolt and opened it.  The storm had passed; it was now cold and clear, a brilliant, starlit, winter’s night.  He saw the man on the porch clearly as he stood there with the world in white at his back.  Gilmore instantly recognized him, and his hand came from under the tails of his coat; he closed the door softly.

“What sort of a joke is this, Marsh?” he demanded in a whisper.

“Joke?” repeated the lawyer in a thick husky voice, as he took an uncertain step toward the gambler.

“Your coming here at this hour; if it isn’t a joke, what is it?”