“Yes—­but you needn’t write,” he hastened to say.  “He said he might come, perhaps to-morrow.”  He rose from his chair.  “I’ve got to hurry off, little girl.  These negotiations cannot wait.  I’ll run in when I can—­this afternoon at the latest.  I’m glad to see you looking so well.”  He approached her with lover-like intent.  “My heart has been empty and forlorn, away from you, Beth.  Surely you have a little—­a little something for me, pet?  You know how starved——­”

“Oh—­Mrs. Dick is coming!” she interrupted desperately.  “You must have a great deal to do.”

Mrs. Dick was making a large and lively noise in the kitchen.

Bostwick listened for a second, his deep-set eyes keenly fixed on the girl, like very orbs of suspicion and jealousy.  He lowered his voice.

“Has that ruffian, Van Buren, been here recently?”

She raised her brows in well-feigned astonishment,

“I haven’t heard of any ruffian being in town.”

Bostwick studied her face for a moment in silence.

“I’ll be around this afternoon,” he repeated.  “Good-by.”

He departed hurriedly, glancing at his watch as he went.

Not a block from the house he met old Billy Stitts, who, though quite unknown to the New York man, knew Bostwick in a way of his own.

“Morning, Uncle.—­Howdy?” he said, blocking Bostwick’s path.  “Back, I see.  Welcome home.  I guess you don’t know me as well as I know you.  My name is Stitts—­Billy Stitts—­and I’m gittin’ on fine with your niece.  I’m the one which runs her errands and gits the inside track.”

Bostwick, staring at Billy ominously, and about to sweep him aside as a bit of old rubbish, too familiar and impudent for tolerance, paused abruptly in his impulse, at a hint which Billy had supplied.

“Oh,” he said.  “How are you?  So you are the friend who runs Miss Kent’s errands?  You must be the one she asked me to befriend.”

“Did she?” said old Billy, inordinately pleased.  “What did I tell you about the inside track?”

“I’m glad if you have been of use,” Bostwick told him insidiously.  “You didn’t say what your services have been.  Just a few little errands, I suppose?”

“Never you mind,” said Billy, with a profoundly impressive wink.  “That’s between her and me.  That ain’t even fer you, Uncle Bostwick,” and he winked again.

“Of course, of course,” agreed Bostwick, half consumed with rage at the old fellow’s abominable manners and familiarity.  “I’ll keep you in mind and add some reward of my own on the next occasion.”

He bowed and hastened on his way, boiling with curiosity to know what it was that Beth had been doing to require this old tattler’s services.  He meant to ascertain.  His suspicions went at once to Van, at thought of whom he closed down his jaw like a vise.

Filled with a turmoil of thoughts that seethed in his brain, like a brew in a witch’s cauldron—­some of them dark and some golden bright, and some of them red with lust for many things—­he proceeded down street to McCoppet’s place, to find himself locked out of the private den, where the gambler was closeted with Lawrence.