“Nothing, thank you,” answered Bostwick, who started for his man, but halted for McCoppet to finish his business with his friend.

The man on whom Bostwick was gazing was a tall, slender, slightly stooped individual of perhaps forty-five, with a wonderful opal in his tie, from which he had derived his sobriquet.  He was clean-shaved, big featured, and gifted with a pair of heavy-lidded eyes as lustreless as old buttons.  He had never been seen without a cigar in his mouth, but the weed was never lighted.

Bostwick noted the carefulness of the man’s attire, but gained no clue as to his calling.  To avoid stupid staring he turned to watch a game of faro.  Its fascinations were rapidly engrossing his attentions and luring him onward toward a reckless desire to tempt the goddess of chance, when he presently beheld McCoppet turn away from his man and saunter down the room.

A moment later Bostwick touched him on the shoulder.

“Beg pardon,” he said, “Mr. McCoppet?”

McCoppet nodded.  “My name.”

“I’d like to introduce myself—­J.  Searle Bostwick,” said the visitor.  “I expected to arrive, as I wrote you——­”

“Glad to meet you, Bostwick,” interrupted the other, putting forth his hand.  “Where are you putting up?”

“I haven’t been able to find accommodations,” answered Bostwick warmly.  “It’s an outrage the way this town is conducted.  I thought perhaps——­”

“I’ll fix you all right,” cut in McCoppet.  “Are you ready for a talk?  Nothing has waited for you to come.”

“I came for an interview—­in fact——­”

“Private room back here,” McCoppet announced, and he started to lead the way, pausing for a moment near a faro table to cast a cold glance at the dealer.

“Wonderfully interesting game,” said Bostwick.  “It seems as if a man might possibly beat it.”

There might have been a shade of contempt in the glance McCoppet cast upon him.  He merely said:  “He can’t.”

Bostwick laughed.  “You seem very positive.”

McCoppet was moving on again.

“I own the game.”

He owned everything here, and had his designs on two more places like it, down the street.  He almost owned the souls of many men, but gold and power were the goals on which his eyes were riveted.

Bostwick glanced at him with newer interest as they passed down the room, and so to a tight little office the walls of which were specially deadened against the transmission of sound.

“Have anything to drink?” inquired the owner, before he took a chair, “—­whiskey, wine?”

“Thanks, no,” said Bostwick, “not just yet.”  He took the chair to which McCoppet waved him.  “I must say I’m surprised,” he admitted, “to see the numbers of men, the signs of activity, and all the rest of it in a camp so young.  And by the way, it seems young Kent is away.”

“Yes,” said the gambler, settling deeply into his chair and sleepily observing his visitor.  “I sent him away last week.”