While he was snatching a bit of midnight supper Pierce again heard the name of Kirby mentioned, and a reference to the big game in progress at the Ophir.  Recalling Lucky Broad’s words, he wondered if it were possible that Kirby and his girl were indeed the father and daughter who had applied at the Northern for shelter.  It seemed incredible that a young woman of such apparent refinement could be a gambler’s daughter, but if it were true she was not only the daughter of a “sporting man,” but a very notorious one, judging from general comment.  Prompted by curiosity, Pierce dropped in at the Ophir on his way back to work.  He found the place crowded, as usual, but especially so at the rear, where the games were running.  When he had edged his way close enough to command a view of the faro-table he discovered that Sam Kirby was, for a fact, the one-armed man he had met during the afternoon.  He was seated, and close at his back was the gray-eyed, brown-haired girl with the pleasant voice.  She was taking no active part in the game itself except to watch the wagers and the cases carefully.  Now and then her father addressed a low-spoken word to her and she answered with a nod, a smile, or a shake of her head.  She was quite at ease, quite at home; she was utterly oblivious to the close-packed ring of spectators encircling the table.

The sight amazed Phillips.  He was shocked; he was mildly angered and mildly amused at the false impression this young woman had given.  It seemed that his judgment of female types was exceedingly poor.

“Who is Mr. Kirby?” he inquired of his nearest neighbor.

“Big sport.  He’s rich—­or he was; I heard he just lost a string of race-horses.  He makes a fortune and he spends it overnight.  He’s on his way ‘inside’ now with a big saloon outfit.  That’s Letty, his girl.”

Another man laughed under his breath, saying:  “Old Sam won’t bet a nickel unless she’s with him.  He’s superstitious.”

“I guess he has reason to be.  She’s his rudder,” the first speaker explained.

Mr. Kirby rapped sharply upon the table with the steel hook that served as his left hand, then, when a waiter cleared a passageway through the crowd, he mutely invited the house employees to drink.  The dealer declined, the lookout and the case-keeper ordered whisky, and Kirby signified by a nod that the same would do for him.  But his daughter laid a hand upon his arm.  He argued with her briefly, then he shrugged and changed his order.

“Make it a cigar,” he said, with a smile.  “Boss’s orders.”

There was a ripple of laughter.

“Sam’s a bad actor when he’s drinking,” one of Pierce’s informants told him.  “Letty keeps him pretty straight, but once in a while he gets away.  When he does—­oh, boy!”

Long after he had returned to his tasks the memory of that still-faced girl in the foul, tobacco-laden atmosphere of the gambling-hall remained to bother Pierce Phillips; he could not get over his amazement and his annoyance at mistaking her for a—­well, for a good girl.