This division of power worked admirably, and Miller’s prohibitions were scrupulously observed.  He was angered, therefore, when, one morning, his rule was broken.  At the moment he was engaged in weighing, checking up, and sacking his previous night’s receipts, he looked up with a frown when a woman’s—­a girl’s—­voice interrupted him.

“Are you Ben Miller?” the trespasser inquired.

Miller nodded shortly.  He could be colder than a frog when he chose.

“I’m looking for work,” explained the visitor.

“You got the wrong door,” he told her.  “You want the dance-hall.  We don’t allow women in here.”

“So I understand.”

Miller’s frown deepened.  “Well, then, beat it!  Saloons are masculine gender and—­”

“I’m not a dance-hall girl, I’m a dealer,” the other broke in.

“You’re a—­what?” Ben’s jaw dropped; he stared curiously at the speaker.  She was pretty, very pretty, in a still, dignified way; she had a fine, intelligent face and she possessed a poise, a carriage, that challenged attention.

“A dealer?  What the deuce can you deal?” he managed to ask.

“Anything—­the bank, the wheel, the tub, the cage—­”

Disapproval returned to the man’s countenance; there was an admonitory sternness to his voice when he said:  “It ain’t very nice to see a kid like you in a place like this.  I don’t know where you learned that wise talk, but—­cut it out.  Go home and behave yourself, sister.  If you’re broke, I’ll stake you; so’ll anybody, for that matter.”

His visitor stirred impatiently.  “Let’s stick to business.  I don’t want a loan.  I’m a dealer and I want work.”

Morris Best bustled out of the adjoining room at the moment, and, noting a feminine figure in this forbidden territory, he exclaimed: 

“Hey, miss!  Theater’s in the rear.”

Miller summoned him with a backward jerk of his head.  “Morris, this kid’s looking for a job—­as dealer,” said he.

“Dealer?” Best halted abruptly.  “That’s funny.”

“What is funny about it?” demanded the girl.  “My father was a gambler.  I’m Rouletta Kirby.”

“Are you Sam Kirby’s girl?” Miller inquired.  When Rouletta nodded he removed his hat, then he extended his hand.  “Shake,” said he.  “Now I’ve got you.  You’ve had a hard time, haven’t you?  We heard about Sam and we thought you was dead.  Step in here and set down.”  He motioned to the tiny little office which was curtained off from general view.

Rouletta declined with a smile.  “I really want work as a dealer.  That’s the only thing I can do well.  I came here first because you have a good reputation.”

“Kirby’s kid don’t have to deal nothing.  She’s good for any kind of a stake on his name.”

“Dad would be glad to hear that.  He was a—­great man.  He ran straight.”  Rouletta’s eyes had become misty at Miller’s indirect tribute to her father; nevertheless, she summoned a smile and went on:  “He never borrowed, and neither will I. If you can’t put me to work I’ll try somewhere else.”