Elliott reached Nashville in two days, being lucky enough to catch a fast freight-train which carried him half the distance in a single night. For the last twenty miles he travelled on a passenger-train, paying his fare, to preclude¹ the danger of arrest as he came into the great railway yards, and the consciousness of safety in the face of the police seemed to him almost an odd and unfamiliar³ sensation.  
It was early in the forenoon when he walked up the incline of the ill-paved street that reminded him of St. Joseph. He inquired for the Arcadia saloon; he found it on Cherry Street, and within the swing-doors it was cool and dusky, sparkling with glass and marble, and vibrating with electric fans. Two or three prosperous-looking Southerners were sipping⁴ through straws from glasses crowned with green leaves and crushed fruit, but Elliott contented⁵ himself with a glass of beer, and asked the bartender if he knew Mr. Henninger, or where he was to be found.
 
“Sure,” said the mixer of drinks. “He’s been stoppin’ at the Hotel Orleans, and I reckon you’ll find him there now. If he ain’t there no more, ask for Mr. Hawke, and he’ll likely know something about him.”
 
Hawke was one of the names Bennett had mentioned, and this small circumstance, or perhaps it was the beer, raised Elliott’s hopes. He finished his glass, and went straight to the Hotel Orleans, which was three blocks away.
 
The great lobby was full of leather-covered sofas and easy-chairs, and floored with handsome mosaic⁶, and perhaps a score of men were smoking or reading newspapers. It was clearly a good hotel, and Bennett had said that his friends would be at the best hotel in town. Elliott looked over the register, and, not immediately finding the names he sought, he spoke⁷ to the clerk, who did not take the trouble to conceal⁸ his contempt of Elliott’s disreputable appearance.
 
“Yes,” he said, curtly⁹. “That’s Mr. Henninger sitting by the window, in the gray suit.”
 
Elliott walked over to the man indicated. He was young, probably not over thirty-five, dark-faced, strong-featured, with a suspicion of military severity and exactitude. His costume of hard gray tweed had evidently come from the hands of a first-rate tailor, and he was smoking a cigar which he never removed from his teeth, and looking through the great window with an air of reserved boredom¹⁰. Elliott, as he approached, felt himself suddenly covered with a glance that was like the muzzle¹¹ of a revolver.
 
“Mr. Henninger?” he inquired, pausing.
 
The man in gray looked him over for another instant, and then replied, frigidly¹²:
 
“Yes.”
 
Elliott, who did not particularly care for this reception, handed him Bennett’s note without another word. Henninger took it, and as he opened it leisurely¹³ Elliott was struck by the shape of the hand that held it. It was the hand of a pianist, a hand that had never worked, white, long-fingered, thin, but looking all nerves and muscles, as if strung with steel wires.
 
Henninger read the note, and examined it very closely. Then he glanced up at Elliott again with a slight smile, and held out his hand.
 
“I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Elliott,” he said. “Sit down. What’s the matter with Bennett, and where is he?”
 
“He’s in the hospital in St. Louis. He got rather badly hurt—by a train.” There were half a dozen men within earshot, and Elliott thought it best to avoid details. “He was coming here to see you when it happened. It seems there’s something doing.”
 
He looked at Henninger, who returned the glance impenetrably.
 
“I’ve a message from him, but it’ll take some time to tell it. He also wished Mr. Hawke and Mr. Sullivan to hear it.”
 
Henninger turned to a man sitting close to him, who had been listening with all his ears, much to Elliott’s annoyance¹⁴.
 
“This is Mr. Hawke.”
 
Hawke was a younger man than the Englishman, shorter, lighter¹⁵, with a pleasant face and a light boyish moustache, like Elliott’s own. But there were the same hard lines about the mouth and nostrils¹⁶, and the same level, aggressive gaze that Henninger possessed¹⁷, so that at moments the unlike faces took on a curious similarity.
 
“Sullivan isn’t in the city,” said Henninger, “but we know where he is. It’s all the same thing. But if we’re going to talk we’d better go up to my room.”
 
It was a good room, at the front on the second floor, and as Elliott surveyed its luxurious¹⁸ appointments he felt sure that the party must be in funds, after all. A bell-boy presently came in with a tray, a bottle, a siphon of seltzer, and a box of cigars.
 
In the midst of this unexpected luxury, and feeling conscious of his own shabbiness, Elliott told the story of the wreck¹⁹ of the Clara McClay, making reference to his notes, and at the end producing the little prism of gold that Bennett had cut from the brick. At the first mention of the treasure Elliott caught an involuntary glance flashed between Henninger and Hawke that was like the discharge of an electric spark, but neither made any comment till the tale was finished.
 
Then Henninger poured out a spoonful of whiskey, brimmed up the tumbler from the fizzing siphon, and sipped²⁰ it slowly, meditatively²¹.
 
“Confound it, what do you think?” burst out Hawke, who was wriggling²² with excitement.
 
“I think we’d better telegraph to Sullivan,” replied Henninger, putting down the glass. “And I’ll wire Bennett, too—without any reflection upon your veracity²³, Elliott. Now, look here,” he went on, with increasing animation²⁴, “as it looks now, there may be a good thing in this, but first of all we don’t know anything. We don’t know where that wreck is. Seems to me that Bennett might have taken some kind of bearings. Now some one who knows more than we do may get there first.”
 
“It looks to me as if that mate was up to something,” said Hawke.
 
“Very much so. The question is, whether he got away. Bennett said he was hurt. If he did escape, you can bet he’ll come back, and there’s been a lot of time lost already.”
 
“Well, now,” Elliott interrupted, “if you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you. I’m afraid I’m embarrassing your councils, and I’ve got a long road to Baltimore.”
 
“But, hold on!” ejaculated Hawke. “You’re in this. Ain’t he, Henninger?”
 
Henninger looked at Elliott again, with the same acutely penetrative scrutiny²⁵ as at first, a manner not unfriendly, but coldly analytical²⁶.
 
“Yes, he’s in it, if he cares to come in,” he answered, finally. “But you must understand, Elliott, what sort of a game this is. Everything may be all right, or not. It looks to me now as if those meat-cases didn’t belong much to anybody, but that much gold never goes unclaimed, and somebody is liable to turn up and want them. We may have to fight for it; they may bring in international law, though we’ve a right to salvage²⁷, anyway. There’s a risk of imprisonment²⁸; there’s risk of sudden death. We’re not men that deal in the crooked²⁹; straight work, with big profits and big chances, is our line, but we’re not men to stick at little things either, when there’s a heavy stake up.”
 
“It seems to me that you are trying to frighten me,” said Elliott.
 
“I am trying to frighten you. If I can do it, we don’t want you in this at all, or you’ll queer the whole thing. But if you’re game, if you understand what it is, and still want to come in—why, come along, and we’ll be glad to have you.”
 
“Thanks,” replied Elliott. “I was just waiting to be formally invited. I’ve figured up all the risks already, and in my present financial state I’d take bigger risks for less money. And that reminds me that I must tell you that I can’t put any capital in this scheme. I’m down to my last dollar, and I’ve broken that.”
 
Hawke began to laugh. “We’re all in the same boat, then. There’s my pile,” pulling out two or three bills, and a little silver. “I’ll bet it all that Henninger can’t match it.”
 
“But,” Elliott exclaimed, “this room!—and those cigars were perfectos! Do you find Southern hospitality go that length?”
 
“Not at all; it’s pure business. Universal credit is what has made the prosperity of this great country. We came; we looked respectable, and we stayed; and as long as we keep up appearances, and spend a little over the bar, they’re shy about presenting any bills too forcibly. It cuts both ways, though, for we’d have been glad to get away from here a long time ago, if we could. But we can’t take away our baggage, and without our trunks we couldn’t keep up appearances anywhere; without our appearances, we might as well be hoboes, or honest workmen. A man is no better than his coat. I’m not hitting at you,” he added, quickly.
 
“Oh, I don’t mind,” Elliott assured him. “I’ve got a trunk full of respectable raiment in Baltimore. I’ll send for it.” He laughed too, as the piquancy³⁰ of the situation struck him. “I don’t know how I’ll get them out of the express office, though. What dazes me is how you fellows expect to chase this million with the capital we have. We need, goodness knows how many hundreds, or thousands. How will you raise it—borrow it? Work for it?”
 
“Hardly. Play for it,” replied Hawke, without hesitation³¹.
 
It was consistent. As Elliott looked at him, he was struck by the fact that these men never did anything but gamble, staking their fortunes or their lives with equal alacrity³², generally with the odds³³ against them, and generally with the dice³⁴ loaded against them also. He had done the same thing himself, and he had promised Margaret to do it no more. But—
 
“We’d been thinking of something of the sort before you came,” Hawke was saying, “so as to finish things one way or the other, and this decides it. We’ll need a lot of money—oh, a devil of a lot. We’ll have to fit out a regular expedition, hire a small ship of some sort, get diving apparatus³⁵, and all sorts of things. Five thousand dollars is the very minimum. Let’s see how much we can raise.”
 
He emptied his pockets on the table; there was a little more than fifteen dollars. Henninger, after much rummaging³⁶, produced eleven.
 
“I’ve got ninety-five cents,” said Elliott. “Let it go into the pot, too.”
 
“Good,” said Hawke. “Total, twenty-seven dollars. Now, that’s a sum that’s of no use to any man, much less to three men. Just on general principles we might as well get rid of it, and get the agony over. But see what we can do with it; we’ll just go over to Nolan’s place, at the Crackerjack, and put up our little twenty-seven on the wheel, till we make or break. Why, I knew a man in Louisville who started with a dollar and broke the game. I didn’t see it myself.”
 
“None of us ever saw those things done,” remarked Henninger, who was listening with a dry smile. “But you’re right, I believe. It’s the only chance I see, for Sullivan can’t possibly do anything for us in time. Who’s to do the playing? Who’s got the luck?”
 
“I haven’t,” said Elliott, with conviction. “I tried it in St. Joe.”
 
Henninger opened a small grip and took out an elaborate morocco case. There were rows of ivory poker³⁷ chips in it, and a dainty, gilt-edged pack of playing-cards.
 
“A few poker hands will show who’s in the vein³⁸,” he remarked, and began to deal the cards.
 
From the first Hawke was by far the most fortunate, and when, upon the last deal, he held a spade flush without drawing it was apparent to all three that he was unconsciously in the enjoyment³⁹ of a special vein of luck. With a pleasing degree of confidence in this act of divination⁴⁰, they handed over to him the entire capital of the syndicate. Hawke looked a little overwhelmed at the responsibility.
 
“We’ll go up with you, but we’ll leave you absolutely to yourself,” said Henninger. “Play just as the fancy takes you, but play high and fast. Hit the luck before it turns; that’s the only chance of making anything.”
 
The Crackerjack’s first floor was occupied by a marble and silver saloon, and above this was the gambling⁴¹ establishment,—an immense, cool, heavily curtained room, with shaded electric lamps above the tables that glittered with their devices in red and black and green and nickel. Overhead a dozen electric fans vibrated noiselessly.
 
Eight or ten players were standing⁴² in a semicircle at the big “crap” table. Each man, as he rolled the dice, snapped his fingers violently in the air and emitted an explosive “Hah!” which is supposed to aid in turning the winning number. Behind the table stood the suave⁴³ employees of the game. They did not snap their fingers; they made no ejaculations—but they won.
 
The roulette-table was deserted⁴⁴; it is not a favourite game in the South, and the croupier was lazily spinning the ball to keep up an appearance of activity. Hawke bought twenty-seven dollars’ worth of white checks and settled himself on a stool, while Henninger and Elliott walked over to the crap-table and stood looking on, to leave him entirely⁴⁵ open to the promptings of his “vein.”
 
They heard the sharp, diminuendo whirr of the ball begin, but they did not look around. “Whirr-rr! click!”
 
“That’s the four of hearts and the second twelve,” said the croupier.
 
Elliott was astonished to hear a card thus called instead of a number, but Henninger explained in an undertone that, to evade⁴⁶ the laws of Tennessee, all the roulette-wheels in the State are marked with the spots of the four suits of cards, up to the nines, instead of the usual thirty-six numbers. This naïve accommodation is supposed to satisfy at once the demands of justice and of sport, though it does not always save a gaming-house from being raided by the police.
 
They did not know whether Hawke had lost or won, and they did not look, but they heard the rattle⁴⁷ of checks, and the whirr recommence. For a time that seemed endless—perhaps it was half an hour—this went on. Henninger and Elliott tried to interest themselves in the fortunes of the crap game. They glanced over the newspapers. They walked restlessly about, smoked, peeped through the curtains at the street, tried to talk, and fell silent at every sound from the table where destiny was being spun⁴⁸ out for them at the gay roulette.
 
Evidently Hawke was not yet wiped out. Was he winning? They did not know; they dared not look, listening to the whiz and click of the wheel, and dreading⁴⁹ to see the player return suddenly empty-handed.
 
Finally the strain became unendurable, and Henninger turned and walked straight to the roulette-table. Elliott followed him, and bit off a half-uttered ejaculation as he caught sight of the board.
 
Hawke was sitting behind a rampart of stacked checks. He had trebled and quadrupled his capital already; his stakes were scattered⁵⁰ all over the board, and just as they came up he won again with a heavy play on the second dozen numbers. There was a high flush on his cheeks; he had laid down his cigar and forgotten it, but his face was full of the bright certainty of the gambler who is playing in luck and knows it; and he placed his stakes about the layout as unhesitatingly as a system-player.
 
Henninger and Elliott carefully avoided meeting his eye, and watched the spinning wheel. Click.
 
“The five of spades,” announced the croupier.
 
The number had been “hit all round.” There were checks on it full, and more on its corners, and Hawke built another tier of his rampart with the proceeds of the coup⁵¹.
 
The atmosphere of the gaming-room is telepathic. The “crap-shooters” becoming aware that a “killing” was in progress, abandoned their game and came to look on in silence, some of them following Hawke’s ventures with small stakes.
 
And still the player won. He cleared the rack of white checks and bought blue ones. With the change he was met by a reverse, and lost heavily for some minutes, but the luck returned, and he seemed in a fair way to empty the rack again.
 
Again and again the numbers were squarely hit. When he lost he boldly doubled his stake; he plunged⁵² recklessly on the most improbable combinations, and the ivory ball, as if he had magnetized it, spun unerringly to the chosen number. Round the table no one spoke but the croupier; no one looked at anything but the board and the gaudy⁵³ wheel. Even those spectators who had no stake in the game were as breathless as the rest. It was the sort of luck by which games are broken, and presently the proprietor⁵⁴, Nolan himself, came up and watched the struggle, silent and grave, with a slightly worried expression.
 
There was another ten minutes of ill-fortune which sadly reduced Hawke’s store. Henninger, anxiously following the play, wondered if the run of luck were not exhausted—whether it would not be better to leave off. But as yet scarcely four hundred dollars had been won. Win or lose, the game must go on.
 
Whiz—whirr-r-r—click! “It’s the ace² of diamonds,” said the croupier, leaning over the wheel. There was a dollar check upon the winning square, and the croupier paid out the due thirty-five upon it. These Hawke nonchalantly allowed to remain upon the number that had just come up.
 
Round spun the ball for endless seconds. Click!
 
“The ace of diamonds repeats,” declared the croupier. The big stake had won. The croupier was working for a salary, and the result made no difference to him, but even he was affected⁵⁵ by the pervading⁵⁶ excitement, and he showed it as he set himself to count out the stacks of red checks necessary to pay the heavy winning—a little less than thirteen hundred dollars.
 
With hands that trembled a little Hawke raked the checks together into a solid mass upon the same number once more, and the ball recommenced its swift circling. It was the highest play that the Crackerjack had ever seen. Nolan put out his hand as if to refuse the stake, and then withdrew it again, but his eyes puckered⁵⁷ under his hat-brim. The spectators gathered closer round; a third appearance of the ace of diamonds would win almost fifty thousand dollars, and would undoubtedly⁵⁸ break the bank, if not bankrupt the proprietor.
 
“Great heavens! he’s pyramiding on the ace of diamonds again!” gasped⁵⁹ Elliott, in a fright, as soon as he understood; and Henninger turned a savage⁶⁰ face upon him for silence. But Hawke had caught the whisper. He glanced up irresolutely⁶¹, and, before the ball had slackened speed, he swept three-fourths of the checks across the table and upon the simple red. The rest, about three hundred dollars’ worth, remained upon the lucky ace of diamonds.
 
But he had changed his play, and every gambler at the table mentally predicted disaster from the ill-omened act. A man who had been about to follow his stake with a five-dollar bill, thrust it back into his pocket.
 
Round spun the ball, circling the slow-moving wheel. Every eye was fixed⁶² upon the little ivory sphere that rolled and rolled as if it would never stop—then gradually lost momentum⁶³, gravitated toward the bottom, and tripped on a barrier. The iron-nerved Henninger bit his cigar in two, and it dropped unnoticed from his lips. The ball jumped, rolled across an arc of the wheel, and dropped into a compartment⁶⁴ with a click.
 
“By God, he hits it!” ejaculated a looker-on, irrepressibly.
 
“You win, sir. It’s the ace of diamonds for the third time!” said the croupier, with a nervous smile, glancing at Nolan. “I’m afraid you’ll have to cash in some of those checks. I haven’t enough left to pay the bet.”
 
Hawke nodded, but Henninger leaned forward.
 
“No more,” he said, in an undertone to Hawke. “We’re through. We’ve got what we needed, and more. We’re a syndicate, Charley,” he explained to the croupier, “and Mr. Hawke was playing for us all.”
 
“Shut up!” said Hawke, in a feverish⁶⁵ whisper. “This is the chance of our lives. It’s the chance of our lives, I tell you. I’m going to wreck this game before I get up.”
 
“No, you’re not. You’re going to stop right now,” responded Henninger. “Pull yourself together, man; you’re drunk. Tell him you want to cash in.”
 
The two men glared at each other for a moment, the one flushed, the other deadly pale, and Hawke slowly came to himself.
 
“I guess you’re right, old man,” with a nervous giggle⁶⁶. “How much have I won? Charley, I reckon I’ll cash in.”
 
On this last and greatest coup a thousand dollars had been won on the colour, and a trifle over ten thousand on the number, and besides this, Hawke had several hundred dollars’ worth of checks from his previous winnings. Nolan himself counted the checks, stacking them back in place. The total amount was eleven thousand, seven hundred and thirty-eight dollars.
 
Nolan took the loss like a veteran book-maker. “I’ll have to send out to the bank, gentlemen,” he said. “While you’re waiting, give the boy your orders.”
 
“No, this is on us,” said Henninger. “Everybody take something on our luck. Nothing but Pommery’ll moisten it.”
 
Nolan submitted gracefully⁶⁷. “I won’t deny that you do owe me a drink. I’ve been in this business, here and on the turf, about all my life, but I never did see anything like that run. I was glad when Mr. Hawke cashed in—and that’s no lie.”
 
Hawke was growing as pale as he had been red, and the champagne⁶⁸ glass trembled in his fingers. The two who had not played, suffering no reaction, were scarcely able to subdue⁶⁹ their spirits to a sportsmanlike decorum. The money came, and Nolan counted it out in a thick green package—the weapon that was to win the drowned million as the twenty-seven dollars had won this. And yet, as Elliott looked at the hundred-dollar bills he felt a sudden shock of belated terror. It was only then that he realized what loss would have meant,—and it had been such a near thing!