table, and one circle of poker players.

The cold eyes of a sleek, slippery man sliding cards out of a faro-box
looked at the Westerner curiously. Among the suckers who came to this
den of thieves to be robbed were none of Clay's stamp. Lindsay watched
the white, dexterous hands of the dealer with an honest distaste. All
along the border from Juarez to Calexico he had seen just such soft,
skilled fingers fleecing those who toiled. He knew the bloodless,
impassive face of the professional gambler as well as he knew the
anxious, reckless ones of his victims. His knowledge had told him
little good of this breed of parasites who preyed upon a credulous
public.

The traffic of this room was crooked business by day as well as by
night. A partition ran across the rear of the back parlor which showed
no opening but two small holes with narrow shelves at the bottom. Back
of that was the paraphernalia of the pool-room, another device to
separate customers from their money by playing the "ponies."

As Clay looked around it struck him that the personnel of this
gambling-den's patrons was a singularly depressing one. All told there
were not a dozen respectable-looking people in the room. Most of those
present were derelicts of life, the failures of a great city washed up
by the tide. Some were pallid, haggard wretches clinging to the
vestiges of a prosperity that had once been theirs. Others were
hard-faced ruffians from the underworld. Not a few bore the marks of
the drug victim. All of those playing had a manner of furtive
suspicion. They knew that if they risked their money the house would
rob them. Yet they played.