ear.  The hands, already deftly shuffling the cards for another deal, scarcely paused in their operations, nor did those cool, observant eyes once desert the sea of excited faces before him.  He asked a single brief question, nodded carelessly to the hastily spoken reply, and then, as the woman drew noiselessly away, Winston gazed directly into the startled black eyes of Senorita Mercedes.  Instantly she smiled merrily, exhibiting her white teeth.

“Ah, senor,” and she bent toward him in seductive whisper, “so my lady, de Americana, let you escape early to-night!”

Surprised at her recognition, he failed to answer immediately, and the girl touched him gently with her hand.

“De girls of my race never so cold, senor.  Try me some time, an’ see.”

With a happy laugh and coquettish uplifting of the dark eyes, the dancer was as quickly gone, vanishing into the throng like a flash of red flame.  For a breathless moment Winston’s admiring gaze followed, conscious merely of her dark beauty, her slender, graceful figure.  He was young, impressionable, and there was rare witchery about the girl which momentarily fascinated him.  His attention shifted back to Farnham with a swift remembrance of the stern purpose which had brought him there.  The gambler was playing out his case silently, emotionless as ever.  If he had observed anything unusual, if he considered anything beyond his card-play, no eye could have detected it in that impassive countenance, those cold, expressionless eyes.  Apparently he was a mere automaton, the sole symbol of life showing in the white fingers so deftly dealing the fateful pasteboards from the box.  The impatient, excited crowd facing him moved restlessly, cursing or laughing with each swift turn of play; but he who wrought the spell neither spoke nor smiled, his face remaining fixed, immutable, as emotionless as carven granite.  Suddenly he glanced meaningly aside, and, nodding silently to a black-moustached fellow lounging beside the croupier, rose quickly from his chair.  The other as instantly slipped into it, his hands guarding the few remaining cards, while Farnham stood for a moment behind the chair, idly looking on.  There was no noticeable interruption to the game, and when the final card came gliding forth from the silver box, the imperturbable gamester turned deliberately away from the table, heedless of the desperate struggle about him, the curses and uproar, and faced the younger man still leaning against the wall.

“Mr. Winston?” he questioned quietly.

Surprised by this unexpected notice, the other bowed in silent acknowledgment of his name.

A faint sarcastic smile curved the thin, compressed lips, while Farnham ran one hand carelessly through his slightly curling hair.

“I should like a few words with you in private,” he explained politely.  “There is a vacant room we can use—­this way.”