"Where is Pemmican?"
"Faro, sir."
Challoner ascended swiftly to the second floor, and paused at one room
whose door was open.
"How long?" he inquired, thrusting in his head, by way of greeting to
the group at the table.
Four of the men there did not glance up from their cards; hollow-eyed,
cigars between their teeth, they were alive only to the hundredth chance
that still eluded them. The fifth man, a railroad president, coatless,
alone nodded to Challoner, and said sententiously:--
"Forty hours--for me."
Half way down the corridor Challoner met Pemmican, head card-dealer of
Cradlebaugh's, a man with a pasty face, a low brow and shifty eyes--a
man who knew his business. This Pemmican seemed the all-and-all of
Cradlebaugh's, apparently general factotum; but though he simulated the
appearance of an owner, in reality he was a servile servant stamped with
a dread of the pseudo-Cradlebaugh, of the man higher up. Nevertheless,
whoever controlled the destinies of this gambling-house had chosen him
wisely.
Challoner came at once to the point.
"Pemmican, I want some money--about--" and broke off abruptly, for the
other was eyeing him coldly.
Instinctively Pemmican of the low brow knew that the game was up with
Challoner; moreover, he saw that, although the man seemed sober, in
reality he was very drunk. He walked away quickly, dismissing him
with:--
"I'm sorry, sir, but it's against the rules. I can't----"
"What rot!" interrupted Challoner.
But by this time Pemmican had reached the end of the hall, leaving the
other to gather what he could of his mumbled excuses.
In anything but an amiable mood, Challoner resumed his position at the
buffet. Suddenly he was conscious of a light touch on the arm. Turning
slowly, he found himself face to face again with Pemmican.
"Why don't you try Colonel Hargraves?" whispered the latter.
"What?" came from the clogged brain of Challoner.
"Try Hargraves," the other went on. "He's been down to Gravesend for two
days; and he's back...."