The bar-room of the blazing Poodle-Dog was thronged with men--men
standing before the long, sloppy bar, men seated around rough tables,
and men lounging here and there in groups about the heavily sanded
floor. Uninterestedly glancing at these, Winston paused for an idle
moment, his eyes fastened upon a whirling spectacle of dancers in the
hall beyond. It formed a scene of mad revelry; yet in his present
state of mind, he cared little for its frontier picturesqueness, and
soon turned away, mounting the broad stairway down which, like an
invitation, echoed the sharp click of ivory chips, and the excited
voices of those absorbed in play. In both size and gorgeousness of
decoration the rooms above were a surprise--a glitter of lights, a
babel of noises, a continuous jumble of figures, while over all
trembled a certain tension of excitement, terrible in its enchaining
power. The very atmosphere seemed electric, filled with a deadly
charm. The dull roar of undistinguishable voices sounded incessantly,
occasionally punctuated by those sharp, penetrating tones with which
the scattered dealers called varied turns of play, or by some deep oath
falling unnoted from desperate lips as the unhappy end came. Winston,
who had seen many similar scenes, glanced with his usual cool
indifference at the various groups of players, careless except in his
search, and pressing straight through the vibrating, excited throng,
regardless of the many faces fronting him. He understood that Farnham
dealt faro, and consequently moved directly down the long main room
totally indifferent to all else. He discovered his particular goal at
last, almost at the farther end of the great apartment, the crowd
gathered about the faro table dense and silent. He succeeded in
pressing in slowly through the outer fringe of players until he
attained a position within ten feet of the dealer. There he halted,
leaning against the wall, the narrow space between them unoccupied.
He saw before him a slenderly built, fashionably dressed figure,
surmounted by clear-cut, smooth-shaven features--a man of thirty,
possibly, decidedly aristocratic, perfectly self-controlled, his eyes
cool, calculating, his hands swift, unhesitating in play. From some
mysterious cause this masterful repose of the absorbed dealer began
immediately to exercise a serious fascination over the man watching
him. He did not appear altogether human, he seemed rather like some
perfectly adjusted machine, able to think and plan, yet as unemotional
as so much tempered steel. There was no perceptible change passing in
that utterly impassive face, no brightening of those cold, observant
eyes, no faintest movement of the tightly compressed lips. It was as
though he wore a mask completely eclipsing every natural human feeling.
Twice Winston, observing closely from his post of vantage slightly to
the rear the swift action of those slender white fingers, could have
sworn the dealer faced the wrong card, yet the dangerous trick was
accomplished so quickly, so coolly, with never a lowering of the eyes,
the twitching of a muscle, that a moment later the half-jealous watcher
doubted the evidence of his own keen eyesight. As the final fateful
card came silently gliding forth and was deliberately turned, face
upward, amid bitter curses telling the disappointment of that
breathless crowd, a young woman suddenly swept around the lower edge of
the long table, brushing Winston with her flapping skirt as she passed,
bent down, and whispered a half-dozen rapid sentences into the
gambler's ear. The hands, already deftly shuffling the cards for
another deal, scarcely paused in their operations, nor did those cool,
observant eyes once desert the sea of excited faces before him. He
asked a single brief question, nodded carelessly to the hastily spoken
reply, and then, as the woman drew noiselessly away, Winston gazed
directly into the startled black eyes of Señorita Mercedes. Instantly
she smiled merrily, exhibiting her white teeth.