“Well, boys, what can I do for you?” Baxter’s manner was suavely affable.

“We’re lookin’ for a friend,” declared White-Eye.

“I don’t think he’s here.”  And Baxter smiled his professional smile.

“But he’s been here,” asserted White-Eye.  “We ain’t here to make a noise.  We jest want to know what The Spider was doin’ up here a spell ago.”

“Oh, Jim?  Why, he dropped in to shake hands.  I hadn’t seen him for several years.  Didn’t know he was in town.”

“Feed that soft stuff to the yearlins’,” snarled White-Eye.  “The Spider ain’t chousin’ around El Paso for his health, or yours.”

Baxter was about to say something when Pino stooped and picked up the pieces of paper which The Spider had torn in two just before he left.  Pino had no special motive in picking up those torn bits of paper.  He simply saw them, picked them up, and rolled them nervously in his fingers.  White-Eye, watching Baxter, saw him blink and in turn watch Pino’s fingers as he twisted and untwisted the bits of paper.

“He can’t keep his hands still,” said White-Eye, shrugging his shoulder toward Pino.  “Ever meet Pino.  No?  Well, he’s a artist—­when it comes to drawin’—­”

Pino dropped the bits of paper, rose, and shook hands indifferently with Baxter.  As Pino sat down again, Baxter stooped and casually picked up the torn pad-leaf on which he had written White-Eye’s address.  He turned to his desk and taking a box of cigars from a drawer passed it around.  White-Eye’s pin-point pupils glittered.  Pony Baxter seemed mighty anxious to get those two bits of paper out of sight.  White-Eye had seen him drop them in the drawer as he opened it.

“Where did you send The Spider?” asked White-Eye quickly.

“Send him!  Didn’t send him anywhere.  He said he was going back to his hotel.”

White-Eye blinked.  He knew that The Spider was not stopping at a hotel.  For some reason Baxter had lied.

“How’s the game to-night?” queried White-Eye.

“Quiet,” replied Baxter.

“Any strangers inside?”

“No—­not the kind of strangers you mean.”

“Then I reckon we’ll take a look in.  Don’t mind takin’ a whirl at the wheel myself.”

“Come right in,” said Baxter, as though relieved, and he opened the door and stood aside to let them pass.

A quiet game of poker was running at a table near the door.  Farther down the room, which was spacious and brilliantly lighted, a group were playing the wheel.  At the table beyond the usual faro game was in progress.  All told there were some fifteen men in the room, not counting the dealers and lookout.  One or two men glanced up as White-Eye and his companions entered and sauntered from table to table.  To the regular habitues of the place, White-Eye and his companions were simply “rough-necks” to whom Baxter was showing “the joint.”

Presently Baxter excused himself and, telling his visitors to make themselves at home, strode back to his office.  White-Eye and Pino watched the wheel, while the man with the deformed shoulder and his companion stood watching the faro game.  The room was quiet save for the soft click of the chips, the whirring of the ball, an occasional oath, and the monotonous voice of the faro-dealer.