O’Neil greeted him pleasantly, and, considering himself enthusiastically welcomed, the new-comer sat down suddenly, as if some one had tripped him.

“Been washing you for ten minutes.”

“Washing me?”

“No!  Washing you.  Couldn’t make you out—­eyesight’s getting bad.  Too many bright lights in this town.  Ha!  Joke!  Let’s have a gill.”

“Thank you, no.”

“Must have a little dram for old time’s sake.  You’re the only one of the North Pass crowd I’ll drink with.”  Mr. Bulker gestured comprehensively at a group of waiters, and Murray yielded.  “You were my friend, O’Neil; you always treated me right.”

“What are you doing now?” asked O’Neil, with the interest he could not refuse to any one who had ever worked with him.  He remembered the fellow perfectly.  He had come on from the East as auditor, and had appeared to be capable, although somewhat given to drink.

“I’m a broker.  Wall Street’s my habitat.  Fine time to buy stocks, Misser O’Neil.”  Bulker assumed an expression of great wisdom.  “Like to have a tip?  No?  Good!  You’re a wise man.  They fired me from the North Pass.  Wha’d you know about that?  Fired me for drinking!  Greatest injustice I ever heard of, but I hit running, like a turkey.  That wasn’t the reason they let me go, though.  Not on your life!” He winked portentously, and strangely enough his eyelid failed to resume its normal position.  It continued to droop, giving the appearance of a waggish leer.  “I knew too mush!  Isn’t healthy to know too mush, is it?”

“I’ve never had a chance to find out,” smiled Murray.

“Oh, don’t be an ingenue; you savvied more than anybody on the job.  I’ll admit I took a nip now and then, but I never got pickled.  Say!  Who d’you s’pose I saw to-day?  Old man Illis!”

O’Neil became suddenly intent.  He had been trying to get in touch with Poultney Illis for more than a fortnight, but his cables to London had brought no response.

“When did he arrive?”

“Just lately.  He’s a game old rooster, ain’t he?  Gee, he’s sore!”

“Sore about what?”

Bulker winked again, with the same lack of muscular control.

“About that North Pass deal, of course.  He was blackmailed out of a cold million.  The agreement’s about up now, and I figure he’s over here to renew it.”

“You’re talking Greek,” said O’Neil; but his eagerness was manifest.

“I s’posed you knew.  The North Pass has been paying blackmail to the Yukon steamboat companies for three years.  When you built the line it practically put ’em out of the Dawson market, understand?”

“Of course.”

Now that Mr. Bulker’s mind was running along well-worn grooves, his intoxication became less apparent.