Benito entered. The room was blue with
cigarette smoke, its score of tables glimpsed as through a fog. Sawdust
covered the floor and men of all nationalities mingled quietly enough at
play of every kind. A stream of men came and went to and from the gaming
boards and bar.
Benito ordered a drink, and surveyed the room searchingly. The man he
sought was not in evidence. "Is McTurpin here?" he asked the bartender.
If that worthy heard, he made no answer; but a slight, agile man with
sly eyes looked up from a nearby table, "What d'ye want of him,
stranger?"
An arrogant retort sprang to Benito's lips, but he checked it. He bent
toward the questioner confidentially. "I've news for Alec," he
whispered; "news he ought to know--and quickly."
CHAPTER XXIX
THE SQUATTER CONSPIRACY
Instantly the slight man rose. He had narrow eyes, shrewd and
calculating and the sinuous motions of a contortionist. Linking his arm
with Benito's, he smiled, disclosing small, discolored teeth. There was
something ratlike about him, infinitely repellant. "Come, I'll tyke ye
to 'im," he volunteered.
But this did not suit Benito's purpose. "I must go alone," he said
emphatically.
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