restless, feverish and excited.

He pushed the clustering chestnut locks from his fair brow, and watched the cards as they came out with an eagerness that showed he took more than an ordinary interest in the game.

His luck was villainous.

He lost almost every time, and when he tried to make a "pot" to recoup himself, it was all the same—the wrong card came out.

At length he put his hand in his pocket and found no more money there.

With a sigh he rose from the table, and with bowed head and bent back, his eyes lowered and his face wearing an expression which was the embodiment of despair, he walked away.

Mr. Smith followed him.

This was a type of character and a situation he evidently liked to study.

"Ruined! Ruined!" he muttered.

At this juncture he encountered Dan Markham, who had been paying his respects to some boned turkey, and making a very respectable supper.

The professional gambler can always eat and drink, the fluctuations of the game having very little effect on his appetite.

"Hello! Baby," he exclaimed; "you here again to-night?"

"As you see," replied the young man, whose feminine cast of countenance justified the epithet of "Baby" which the gambler had bestowed upon him.

"I thought I told you to keep out of here."

"I know it."

"Then why didn't you follow my orders?"

"Because I couldn't. It was here that I took the first downward step, and to-night I have taken the last."

The gambler regarded him curiously.

"Clarence Holt," he said, "have you been drinking?"

"Not a drop; but it is time I did. My lips are parched and dry. I am on fire, brain and body. Is this a foretaste of the hereafter in store for me?"

"Weak-minded fool!" cried Dan.

"Yes, I was weak-minded to trust you. I was a fool to listen to your rose-colored stories about fortunes made at a faro-bank."

"Come, come! no kicking."

During this conversation Mr. Smith was leaning against the wall, half concealed in the shadow, and smoking a cigar, while he was ostensibly engaged in jotting down some memoranda with a pencil on a scrap of paper, yet not a word was lost upon him.

"You can bully me as much as you please, Dan Markham!" exclaimed Clarence Holt. "But I warn you that I am getting tired of it."

"Tired, eh?"

"Yes, sir; there is a limit to human endurance."

"Is there? Since when did you find that out?" sneered Dan.

"To-night. I have lost a whole month's salary."

"What of that? I'll lend you money."

"Yes, on the terms you did before," replied Clarence Holt, bitterly. "You have made me forge the name of the manager of the bank in which I am employed to the extent of three thousand dollars."

"That isn't much."

"I can never pay it."

Dan Markham lowered his voice almost to a whisper.

"Yes, you can," he said.

"How?"

"Steal it. You have every opportunity."

"And become a thief?"

"Yes."

"Never!"

"Why not? Are you not already a forger? I hold three notes of Mr. Simpson, the manager of the Bank of California, which he never signed, though you did it for him; and if those notes are presented for payment you will go right up to the State Prison at Stockton quicker than railroading."

Clarence Holt groaned deeply.

He was, indeed, in the power of this man, and, struggle as he could, he was unable to extricate himself.

Mr. Smith gathered from this conversation that Dan Markham had got the young man in his power with some object in view.

Clarence Holt was a clerk in the Bank of California, and had forged the name of Mr. Simpson, the manager, to the extent of three thousand dollars, Markham holding the forged notes.

That evening Clarence had risked his whole mouth's salary at faro, and lost.

Hence his despair and agitation were fully accounted for.

"What do you want of me?" asked Clarence.

"My money."

"What will you take for the notes?"

"Double their face-value, and then I'll hand them over to anybody."

Mr. Smith stepped forward and bowed politely.

"Pardon me," said he. "Did I understand you to say that you are anxious to sell some notes?"

"Oh! it's you, Mr. Smith," replied Markham. "If you've got six thousand dollars to throw away on security which is only worth three, we can deal. I want to go to Sacramento to-morrow, and I'll sell out."

"I have overheard the entire conversation," said Mr. Smith, "and I sincerely commiserate this young man, who has fallen into the hands of a sharper!"

"Throwing bricks, eh?"

"Never you mind, my friend. Hand over the notes and I will give you the money."

Markham produced a wallet which was filled with papers and bills, among which he searched until he found the documents of which he was in want.

"Here you are," he exclaimed. "I'd like to find a fool like you every day in the week."

"Would you?"

"If I did, I'd die rich."

Laughing heartily at his own joke, Markham handed over the notes and received the six thousand dollars in exchange.

"Thank you," he added, and extending his hand to Clarence Holt, he said: "Good-by. Take my advice. It's straight. Never bet on a card again."

Nodding carelessly to Mr. Smith, he knocked the ash off his cigar and left the room.

When he was gone, Clarence Holt grasped Mr. Smith's hand.

"How can I thank you?" he exclaimed.

"My dear fellow," replied Mr. Smith, "you have nothing to thank me for."

"Nothing!"

"No, indeed."

"But you have saved me," said Clarence. "You are a whole-souled, generous-hearted man. Give me the forged notes, that I may tear them up, begin again, and, leading a new life, bless you for ever."

A cynical smile curled the lip of Mr. Smith.

"Not so fast, my young friend," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"Simply that I am not your friend, and that I have not done anything of a particularly generous nature."

"How?"

Clarence Holt's countenance fell again as he ejaculated this monosyllable.

"You have only exchanged one master for another," replied Mr. Smith.

"Really, sir," said Clarence, "I am at a loss to understand you. I took you for a gentleman who, having by accident overheard a conversation which was not intended for his ears, endeavored to atone for his conduct by doing what lay in his power to help——"

"Don't catechise me, if you please," interrupted Mr. Smith.

"I have no wish to be offensive."

"If you had I would not allow you to gratify your inclination. Mr. Markham has handed you over to me, and I have bought you."

"Bought me?"

"Why, certainly."

"May I ask your reason for acting in such an eccentric manner?"

"Yes; I like to buy men. It is a fancy of mine. I find them useful occasionally."

Clarence Holt bit his lip.

"Where do you live?"

A card containing an address in Mission Street was handed to him, and, glancing carelessly at it, he put it in his pocket.

"When I want you," he said, "I shall know where to find you."

A rebellious fire burnt in Clarence's eye.

"Suppose I refuse to do your bidding?" he asked.

"Oh! well, in that case I should go to the bank and show the authorities the notes I have bought. I presume they would see that you were punished, and taken care of for a year or two."

Clarence pressed his hands together violently.

"Oh! have I come to this?" he cried. "Would to God I had taken my dear wife's advice and never gambled!"

Mr. Smith looked at him.

"Married, eh?" he remarked.

"Yes, sir."

"Pretty wife?"

"The most divine creature you ever saw. I suppose I am a partial judge, and that my opinion is not to be relied on; but I assure you, sir, that no artist or poet ever conceived so lovely a specimen of womanhood as my darling Elise."

"Humph! How long have you been married?"

"Three years."

"And in