"Here we are!" cried Kennedy.

The sudden flood of light dazzled Shagarach's eyes. Glittering chandeliers threw prismatic reflections upon the twenty or thirty occupants of the room, many of them in full evening dress, like his escort, and several adding the sparkle of diamonds to the iridescence of mirrors and cut glass around them. Across one corner stretched an arc-shaped bar, from which two colored waiters served liquors to the patrons, while others at intervals disappeared behind curtains and reappeared balancing platters of light delicious viands for the men who chatted at the tables. These were octagon-topped and covered with plush. The carpeted floor yielded like turf to the feet. The conversation ran low. The servants whispered their requests and answers. It was an atmosphere of stealth and suppression.

The getting there had been a story in two brief chapters. This palace of fortune owed its name to its location on the uppermost floor of one of those tall, slender structures, like dominoes set on end, which illustrate the reaching upward for space in our cities when horizontal expansion becomes no longer possible. It fronted on a blind passageway in the heart of the hotel district. Its proprietor was a jovial man-about-town, rather prone than averse to the society of police captains. On the ground floor a commercial agency conducted its business quietly. Tailors rented the second and third flights, but the fourth story was always unoccupied and never advertised for hire. Applicants covetous of its advantages were frightened away by the rental asked. It was at the head of the stairs leading from this landing up that Kennedy had pressed the three white bell buttons in the massive door.

The door immediately swung open, and the pair found themselves in front of a second door, similar to the first except that the opaque panels were replaced by glass. Through these the stairs could be seen beyond. Kennedy repeated his signal, this time, however, reversing the order and beginning with the lowest knob. A slide opened at the head of the stairs, and the two men were the object of scrutiny for awhile. Shagarach's sponsor was evidently persona grata to the sentinel, for the second door now swung in and they were free to mount the stairs.

"Sure it's true-blue, Kennedy?" said the sentinel, when they passed him.

"Sure," answered the manikin, but his smirk was forced. "Wine, Sambo."

Kennedy began breaking the ice in this manner for his companion.

"Not a life-long votary of the fickle goddess, I should judge," remarked a man introduced as Mr. Faught.

"This is my initiation into her mysterious rites," answered Shagarach, sweeping the room for Harry Arnold.

"Ah, then, it is not too late for you to withdraw. The ceremonies are trying. I myself am only a neophyte of low degree. Perhaps, being a student of character, you have observed as much from my appearance?"

"I should have known that you had not lost a fortune this evening, at least."

"There is one simple rule to escape that."

"Not to bring one here?"

"Precisely."

Shagarach had indeed been contrasting Faught with the other habitues, most of them men of fashion, still young in years, but middle-aged in the lines of their faces. Several beardless youths appeared to be college students. Two or three wore the style of confidential bookkeepers or bank cashiers. As many more were flush-faced veterans, with wrinkled pouches under their worldly eyes and gray mustaches of knowing twist. Against such a gathering, smiling, but irritable withal underneath from the nervous tension, the large man of bland visage and ironical phrase certainly struck a discordant note.

"Come to the altar and I will explain our ritual."

They moved toward the table in the middle of the room, which was the center of all interest. If men appeared to be chatting absently in a corner, their heads were constantly swiveled this way, their ears caught the announcement of every result.

"None of that, Perley. It was on Stuart's spot," cried a harsh voice from behind the table.

"The needle was on the line," protested Perley, reckless-looking and sadly young. "I say, the needle was on the line, Reddy."

He had missed the prize by a hair. Perhaps the bill he had laid down for this turn was his last. But a friend led him away, still muttering, by the arm, and the gap in the circle which his removal made was quickly closed. The man called Reddy gathered the pile of bills together, separated a small portion, which he swept into the till, and passed the remainder to Stuart.

"Reddy runs things," whispered Faught, not so low but that the bank-tender heard and looked the newcomer over suspiciously. "Comes from the west, a desperado. Just the man to keep them down."

"The bad blood breaks out sometimes?"

"Would if there wasn't a strong hand at the needle."

There was certainly nothing weak about Reddy. He sprawled sidewise in his chair, with his left elbow on the table and his right arm free for a variety of uses—a big-boned ruffian with a sandy face and an eye apparently riveted on the disk before him, but really sweeping in the whole compass of the room. Overhanging eyebrows veiled these furtive glances. As a rule he spoke quietly, in a sepulchral bass, warning the players to adjust their stakes more evenly on the spots, or announcing the winners of the prizes. The recent jar with Perley was something uncommon in the mute and decorous chamber over which Reddy presided.

"It's a new game—roletto; simple as odd or even," explained Faught. "The circle is segmented off into black and white rays, or spots, as we call them——"

"And red?"

"Those are used, too. You see, they are numbered like the others. But they are specially colored for the game with the bank. In the ordinary game some one proposes a stake and puts it down on its lucky number. Then the rest follow suit. Would you like to try this round? It's only a $10 trick."

"Very well."

Shagarach laid his stake down on one of the spaces.

"That starts it. See them join in. Twenty-four spaces, black and white, and twenty-three filled. My ten spot quits it out. Now thank your stars if you see that bill again."

The gamblers stood near while Reddy reached toward the needle. A squad of grenadiers at attention would not be more rigid. They were frozen with suspense. But something paralyzed Reddy's wrist. He had caught the full glance of Shagarach. It was several seconds before he twisted the pointer. For several more it spun around, gradually slowing up and coming to a rest over Shagarach's number.

"Twenty!" called Reddy.

"Mine!"

Shagarach coolly smoothed out the bills and folded them in his pocket, while the unsuccessful players eyed him greedily. Eleven-twelfths of the stakes went to the winner, and 2,000 per cent would be considered a fair profit in any speculation. But the return to the bank was still more liberal, being the steady harvest of two-spots. It was easy to see how the luxuries and free accessories of the Dove-Cote could be provided.

"Try again," said Faught, shaking Shagarach's hand.

"Perhaps that is enough for an experiment," answered the lawyer, a little undecided still whether Faught were a decoy of the establishment.

"A hundred dollars even I come out whole to-night!" cried a voice at the door. It was Harry Arnold.

"A little quieter, gentlemen," said Reddy, tapping on his desk. "This isn't the stock exchange."

"It's a more respectable place," answered Harry, surrendering his wraps to a servant.

"I take you," said several, picking up the gantlet he had thrown down. Faught had spoken first and Kennedy was chosen stake-holder. Shagarach, meanwhile, had retired to a table in the corner and ordered some wine.

"One thousand to ten I break the bank," called Harry as loudly as before.

"I will debar any man who uses that tone again," said Reddy, never moving a muscle. His eyes were as cold and steady as the barrels of two Derringers in the hands of a Texan train robber, and the young bravo, though his lip curled, did not reply. His second bet was taken and the game resumed amid its former silence.

The losers repaired to the sideboard now and then and renewed their courage with stimulants, but one or two who called for brandy were told that no strong liquors were allowed. The little outbreak over Perley's protest showed the wisdom of this rule. Harry Arnold's purse seemed to be well lined to-night, for he led the play higher and higher.

Shagarach held his wineglass toward the chandelier, so as to shield a searching glance at the young man's face. Under the artificial light it was brilliantly beautiful, the face of a man who could say to almost any woman "Come" and she would follow him to the ends of the earth.

"Do you know young Arnold?" asked Faught of Shagarach, who had just lowered his wineglass. He began to take some notice of this large, quiet man, who, all unobserved, was making the rounds of the room.

"By sight," he answered, suppressing a yawn. "You took his bet, I noticed?"

"Only a hundred, and as good as mine already. He's bucking the reds."

"Gad, Harry, you have nerve," Kennedy's pipe was heard exclaiming.

"I see you don't understand," continued Faught. "There are four red spots, you remember. Ordinarily these are not used. In the common game it is impossible for the bank to lose, though one of the players may win."

He smiled in allusion to Shagarach's maiden try.

"But sometimes the bank condescends to take a risk. Then the stakes are high. Each player lays a thousand opposite one of the four reds. If the needle stops over white or black, Reddy scoops the pot. But if it favors a red the man on the spot opposite gets $5,000 from the bank and the others quit whole. You see it's perfectly fair. Twenty blacks and whites and four reds, that makes the odds five to one against the players. So the bank, if red wins, quintuples the stakes all round."

"But the bank twists the needle," said Shagarach.

"Oh, that's all open and above board."

"Do you see Reddy looking down?"

"He is watching the checker board."

"Why not a mirror under the table?"

"What would it show?"

"Two slender bar magnets crossed under the disk. His foot can rotate them so as to underlie any four of the spots; and the needle is of steel." Faught opened his eyes.

"Bravo!" an exclamation burst from the crowd.

"That's number one," Harry Arnold was heard exulting. Followed by Kennedy and the taker of his second bet, he crossed over to the bar.

"Has Arnold set the place on fire?" asked Shagarach. It was said during a pause of the hum and he raised his voice. In one of the facets of his wineglass he saw Harry, who had just passed him, start and turn, but it was impossible to tell whether the expression of his face had altered. Certainly it was no more than a glance and he took no notice of Shagarach. The lawyer's low stature diminished at a distance the effect of his splendid head and eyes, which were so powerful at short range. On the present occasion, if disguise were at all his purpose, this insignificance was useful.

"He has beaten the bank," said Faught.

"A Pyrrhic victory," answered Shagarach, "and a Parthian flight." His companion rose and sauntered behind Reddy, but either the mirror was hidden or the bank-tender was too wary to be caught. Suddenly his harsh voice was heard again.

"Put that down, Perley."

Every one looked in the direction of the youthful gambler, who had been the center of the dispute when Shagarach and Kennedy entered. He had brooded moodily since his loss, sitting alone at a corner table, and was just raising a revolver to his temple when Reddy's command checked and bewildered him. Instantly Harry Arnold, who was nearest, wrenched his wrist and some one else secured the weapon. Perley writhed like a madman, so that it took several minutes to quiet him. When at last his contortions were helpless his spirit seemed to give suddenly and he burst into tears.

Shagarach felt a deep pity in his breast. The youth looked weak rather than wicked. Possibly others, whom he loved, would suffer by his recklessness this night. An aversion to the whole tinseled exterior, gilding over soul-destroying corruption, came upon him and he longed for the sight of something wholesome and pure—if only a basketful of speckled eggs or a clothes-press hung with newly lavendered linen. But his purpose in coming was still unfulfilled, so he merely stopped the youth as he was passing out in dejection, accompanied by a friend.

"I was luckier than you," he said, taking out the roll of bills he had won. "Will you accept my first winnings as a loan?"

Perley halted irresolutely.

"They amount to $200 or so. You may have them on one condition."

"What is it?"

"That you go immediately home."

"I will," said Perley.

From now on the play became more and more exciting, as the champagne began to work in the veins of the gamblers. Once again Harry Arnold won, then lost and lost again. Still he laid down bill after bill from a bulky roll, sometimes leading at the simple game, oftener challenging the bank. As luck turned against him (if luck it were) his temper changed. He grew hilarious, but at the same time savage. Once or twice his differences with Reddy promised to culminate in a serious quarrel, but each time the coolness of the experienced bank-tender prevailed. Shagarach paid no attention to Kennedy, little to Faught. He was studying the soul of Prince Charming.

When Harry came over and demanded brandy and struck the bar with his clenched fist because he could not have it, every one knew that his wad of crisp bills had shrunken to almost nothing. But still he would not surrender.

"The whole pile," he cried, laying the roll down opposite a red spot. It was the same one he had played all the evening. Reddy counted the money coolly.

"A thousand is all we go," he said, returning one bill to Arnold—the last poor remnant of Rabofsky's loan.

"I challenge you to play higher. I dare you to give me my revenge."

"There's only a hundred over and you'll need more than that to settle your outside bets with," answered Reddy, as if victory for the bank were a foregone conclusion. Three others, carried away by the force of play, put down stakes of $1,000 each and all of the reds were covered. Reddy snapped the needle with his forefinger as carelessly as a schoolboy twirling a card on a pin. Four necks craned over, four lungs ceased to draw breath, while it slowly, slowly paused.

"Mine!" exulted Harry, stretching forth his hand; but Reddy intercepted it.

"The bank!" he growled.

"It's on the line," said Harry, flushing.

"By the rules I am judge, and I say the bank!" Reddy lowered his voice to its most sepulchral register, while Harry raised his to a shriek.

"Between man and man, but not between a player and the bank. I leave it to these gentlemen if it wasn't on the line."

"Always," answered Reddy. He snapped the needle again. Whether the bar-magnets below had been carelessly adjusted, whether the pointer had really rested over the line, that was a matter upon which arbitration was now rendered forever impossible. Then he reached for the money.

"You swindler!" shrieked Harry, striking at his face across the table. Instantly Reddy's right hand, the free hand, opened a drawer and presented a cocked revolver. His finger was on the trigger to pull, when Shagarach gave the shout of warning.

"Spies!" he cried. It was a word to strike terror. Perhaps it saved Harry's life.

During the confusion, observed of none but Shagarach, a whistle had been heard from the outside, and the quiet man, Faught, had passed over to one of the windows. There were only two, and these were protected by iron shutters, which closed with a latch. The first sound heard was Faught lifting the latch and throwing the shutters apart. A uniformed man dropped into the room, followed by another and another. Faught rushed behind Reddy and the second window was soon opened. All the officers carried lanterns and clubs.

"The first man who moves his little finger dies," said the foremost of the invaders, advancing. His tone was easy and his pistol covered Reddy. The whole room looked toward the desperado as if expecting him to do something. He turned his revolver's muzzle quickly as if from Arnold to the officer, but instantly his right hand was knocked up by Faught. With his left he pressed an electric button for some daring purpose. Then the pistol shot rang out, a moment too late, and the room was in total darkness.

The slides of the officer's lanterns, however, were opened at once, and in a jiffy the door was guarded. Through the yellowish light Shagarach could see tussling groups and hear cries of anger and pain. He himself was seized and handcuffed. Presently the uproar quieted down and the voice of the spokesman was heard ordering one of the negroes to light up.

But it was a different sight that met Shagarach's eye when the chandeliers blazed again. The roletto table had disappeared, probably carried downstairs by a trapdoor at Reddy's touch of the button. This was the use for which the vacant fourth story was reserved. All around among the smaller tables the gamblers stood like lambs, trembling and pale in the grip of the law. In the middle of the floor lay Reddy, the blood bubbling from a pea-sized hole that divided his left eyebrow and gathering in a thick pool on the carpet. McCausland's bullet had flown true to its target.

Only one of the gamblers was missing.

"He must have climbed out of the window," said Shagarach, sotto voce.