bore the unmistakable stamp of the professional gambler, and, serene as
a quiet mill-pond, he bore his losses or pocketed his winnings with the
enviable sang froid which results from a long and intimate acquaintance
with the green-baized table.

Every night for a week had this man occupied the same seat, and with
careless imperturbability had mulcted the bank of several thousands.

Rieley, the proprietor, himself one of the coolest dare-devil gamblers
in the West, had recognized a kindred spirit, but to all advances and
efforts to make his acquaintance the stranger had turned a cool
shoulder, and his identity was still a matter of conjecture.

Rieley was watching him closely this evening, so intently, indeed, that
the stranger, with a look of annoyance, swept the chips into his hat and
stepping up to the banker cashed them in and walked out of the room. As
he emerged from the door he came in violent contact with a man just
entering.

"I beg your pardon."

"Not at--by Jove! Moriarity, you here too?"

"Blest if it isn't Jim!"

"Hush! you fool, speak lower."

"Been up bucking the tiger?"

"I've been making a damned fool of myself. Rieley watched me too close