McCoppet looked up at him sharply.

“Young Kent ain’t next to anything?” he demanded.

“Not yet.”

“Look here,” said the gambler, whose wits were inordinately keen, “is anything leaking, Bostwick?  What about the girl—­the young chump’s sister?  You’re not putting her wise to the layout?”

“Certainly not!” said Bostwick.  “She knows nothing.  But it wouldn’t be safe for this mix-up to occur.  At any rate, I propose to be there when Van Buren arrives.”

McCoppet arose, plunged his hands in his pockets, and paced up and down reflectively.

“Someways I’m glad Van Buren’s going,” he said.  “I’ve been trying to figure how I could play the game to have him away when we come to take the trick.  He’s hostile in a fight.  I guess it’s all right.  Don’t need you here.  You can copper any possible harm down there at Starlight, and meantime I’ll see if there’s any known way of delaying Van Buren’s return.”

“But how am I going to get down there and back?” said Bostwick, intent upon the need for haste.  “I can’t get around without a car.”

“Don’t get tropical,” said McCoppet calmly.  “I can get you a car in fifteen minutes.  It ain’t as good as yours, but we needed the one that was surest to keep on its legs.  If you ain’t got anything more on your mind, I want to chase around for a lumberman—­a friend of mine—­before he gits any drunker.”

Bostwick arose.

“Arrange for that car to take me to-night, after dinner.  I think that’s all.”

He repaired to his room to attend to a dozen small affairs, then went once more to Beth’s.  She was not in the least surprised to hear him say he meant to return to Starlight and to Glen that night, on business of importance to them all, but she did not believe him in the least.  He remained in the hope of entrapping her into some sort of self-betrayal as to what she had recently done, but without avail.

The hour that he spent at Mrs. Dick’s was dull for them both—­dull and distasteful to the girl, growing so rapidly to hate and distrust him, dull and aggravating to Bostwick, with jealousy increasing upon him.  His one consolation lay in the fact that in less than two days Van Buren would be no better off than a pauper at best with scarcely a shelter for his head.

One of the interesting and vital chapters in the whole affair was meanwhile in McCoppet’s hands and receiving his attention.  Trimmer had been captured, far more sober than the gambler could have hoped.  The two were in the den once more, the lumberman smoking an excellent cigar as if it had been a stick of candy.

McCoppet came to his subject promptly.

“Look here, Larry,” he said, “you know Van Buren when you see him.”

Trimmer glanced up sharply, ready in an instant to resent what he felt to partake of the nature of a personal affront.

“Don’t git funny, Opal.  If ever I fight Van Buren when I’m sober I’ll eat him alive.  I was drunk when he licked me, and you know it!”