He was a clean-cat type of mining speculator
from Nevada.
"Sit down," invited Ralston. "Have a smoke."
The intruder glared at Windham; then he eased himself uncomfortably into
a spacious leather-covered seat, bit off the end of a cigar,
half-viciously and, having found the cuspidor, began.
"I've something for your ear alone, Bill Ralston...."
"Meet Benito Windham," Ralston introduced. "Speak out. I have no
secrets from my friends."
The other hemmed and hawed. He seemed averse to putting into words some
thought which troubled him beyond repression. "Do you know," he burst
out finally, "that your partner, Sharon, has become the most incurable
and dissolute gambler in Nevada?"
"You don't say." Ralston did not seem as shocked as one might have
expected. "Well, my friend, that sounds quite serious.... What's poor
Bill's particular kind of--vice?"
"Poker," said the visitor. "By the Eternal, that man Sharon would stake
his immortal soul on a four-card flush and never bat an eye. Time and
time again I've seen it."
Ralston leaned back comfortably, his folded hands across his middle. His
speculative stare was on a marble statue. At length he spoke.
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