With his hand still pressed against the porch railing, the young man suddenly recalled Biff Farnham, his cool gray eyes as instantly hardening, his lips pressed together.  What possible part in the dusk of the shadowed past did that disreputable gambler play?  What connection could he hold, either in honor or dishonor, with the previous life history of Beth Norvell?  He did not in the least doubt her, for it was Winston’s nature to be entirely loyal, to be unsuspicious of those he once trusted.  Yet he could not continue completely blind.  That there once existed some connection it was impossible to ignore entirely.  Her laughing, yet clearly embarrassed, attempt at explanation had not in the slightest deceived him, for beyond it remained her quick surprise at that earliest unexpected mention of the man’s name, the suddenly blanched cheeks, the unconcealed fright revealed by the dark eyes.  The full truth was to be read there, and not in her later more deliberate attempt at leading his suspicions astray.  There was nothing pleasant about this thought, and Winston’s sensitive face flushed, his glance wandering uneasily down the midnight street.  For the space of a block, or more, where numerous tents and low wooden buildings stood deserted of tenants, all remained dark and silent; but just beyond glowed brilliantly the many-hued lights of the wide-awake Poodle-Dog, and he could even hear the band playing noisily within the still more distant dance hall.  This combined sight and sound served to arouse him to action and a cool resolve.  If he really intended to play out this game successfully he must learn something of its conditions.  Besides, he had now two most excellent reasons for desiring to form an early acquaintance with this man Farnham—­the fellow had come across his line of life twice within the past twelve hours.  For the purpose there could be no time better than the present.  He struck a match against the rough railing and lighted for himself a fresh cigar, his clear-cut, manly features showing calmly determined in that instant glare of sputtering flame.  Almost unconsciously, following the instinct of his long Western training, he slipped a revolver from its customary resting-place at the hip, and dropped the weapon conveniently into the side pocket of his loose sack coat.  He had heard some tales of this man he purposed seeking, and it might prove well to be prepared for emergencies.

The bar-room of the blazing Poodle-Dog was thronged with men—­men standing before the long, sloppy bar, men seated around rough tables, and men lounging here and there in groups about the heavily sanded floor.  Uninterestedly glancing at these, Winston paused for an idle moment, his eyes fastened upon a whirling spectacle of dancers in the hall beyond.  It formed a scene of mad revelry; yet in his present state of mind, he cared little for its frontier picturesqueness, and soon turned away, mounting the broad stairway down which, like an invitation, echoed the sharp click