“Every man has his price,” said Bostwick, “—­big and little.  Culver, you say, represents the Government?  Where is he now?”

McCoppet replied with a question:  “Bostwick, how much have you got?”

Bostwick flushed.  “Money?  Oh, I can raise my share, I hope.”

“You hope?” repeated the gambler.  “Ain’t your syndicate back of any game you open, with the money to see it started right?”

Bostwick was a trifle uneasy.  The “syndicate” of which he had spoken was entirely comprised of Beth and her money, which he hoped presently to call his own.  He had worked his harmless little fiction of big financial men behind him in the certainty of avoiding detection.

“Of course, I can call on the money,” he said, “but I may need a day or so to get it.  How much shall we require?”

McCoppet chewed his cigar reflectively.

“Culver will sure come high—­if we get him at all—­but—­it ought to be worth fifty thousand to you and me to shift that reservation line a thousand feet—­if reports on the claim are correct.”

It was a large sum.  Bostwick scratched the corner of his mouth.

“That would be twenty-five thousand apiece.”

“No,” corrected McCoppet, “twenty thousand for me and thirty for you, for equal shares.  I’ve got to do the work underground.”

“Perhaps I could handle what’s his name, Culver, myself,” objected Bostwick.  “The fact that I’m a stranger here——­”

“And what will you do if he refuses?” interrupted the gambler.  “Will you still have an ace in your kahki?”

Bostwick stared.

“If he should refuse, and tell the owners——­”

“Right.  Can you handle it then?”

Bostwick answered:  “Can you?”

“It’s my business to get back what I’ve lost—­and a little bit more.  You leave it to me.  Keep away from Culver, and bring me thirty thousand in the morning.”

Bostwick was breathing hard.  He maintained a show of calm.

“The morning’s a little bit soon for me to turn around.  I’ll bring it when I can.”

McCoppet arose.  The interview was ended.  He added: 

“Have a drink?”

“I’ll wait,” said Bostwick, “till we can drink a toast to the ’Laughing Water’ claim.”

McCoppet opened the door, waved Bostwick into the crowded gaming room, and was about to follow when his roving gaze abruptly lighted on a figure in the place—­a swarthy, half-breed Piute Indian, standing in front of the wheel and roulette layout.

Quickly stepping back inside the smaller apartment, the gambler pulled down his hat.  His face was the color of ashes.

“So long.  See you later,” he murmured, and he closed the door without a sound.

Bostwick, wholly at a loss to understand his sudden dismissal, lingered for a moment only in the place, then made his way out to the street, and went to the postoffice, where he found a letter from Glenmore Kent.  Intent upon securing the needed funds from Beth with the smallest possible delay, he dropped the letter, unread, in his pocket and headed for the house where Beth was living.  He walked, however, no more than half a block before he altered his mind.  Pausing for a moment on the sidewalk, he turned on his heel and went briskly to his own apartments, where he performed an unusual feat.