“Neale or Larry will visit Durade’s,” she soliloquized, with her pulses beating fast.  “And if they do not come—­some one else will... some man I can trust.”

Therefore she welcomed Durade’s ultimatum.  She paid more heed to the brushing and arranging of her hair, and to her appearance, than ever before in her life.  The white of her throat and neck mantled red as she exposed them, intentionally, for the gaze of men.  Her beauty was to be used as had been her mother’s.  But there would be some one who would understand, some one to pity and help her.

She had not long to meditate and wait.  She heard the heavy steps and voices of men entering the room next hers.

Presently Durade called her.  With a beating heart Allie rose and pushed open the door.  From that moment there never would be any more monotony for her—­nor peace—­nor safety.  Yet she was glad, and faced the room bravely, for Neale or Larry might be there.

Durade had furnished this larger place luxuriously, and evidently intended to use it for a private gambling-den, where he would bring picked gamesters.  Allie saw about eight or ten men who resembled miners or laborers.

Durade led her to a table that had been placed under some shelves which were littered with bottles and glasses.  He gave her instructions what to do when called upon, saying that Stitt would help her; then motioning her to a chair, he went back to the men.  It was difficult for her to raise her eyes, and she could not at once do so.

“Durade, who’s the girl?” asked a man.

The gambler vouchsafed for reply only a mysterious smile.

“Bet she’s from California,” said another.  “They bloom like that out there.”

“Now, ain’t she your daughter?” queried a third.

But Durade chose to be mysterious.  In that he left his guests license for covert glances without the certainty which would permit of brutal boldness.

They gathered around a table to play faro.  Then Durade called for drinks.  This startled Allie and she hastened to comply with his demand.  When she lifted her eyes and met the glances of these men—­ she had a strange feeling that somehow recalled the California days.  Her legs were weak under her; a hot anger labored under her breast; she had to drag her reluctant feet across the room.  Her spirit sank, and then leaped.  It whispered that looks and words and touches could only hurt and shame her for this hour of her evil plight.  They must rouse her resistance and cunning wit.  It was a fact that she was helpless for the present.  But she still lived, and her love was infinite.

Fresno was there, throwing dice with two soldiers.  To his ugliness had been added something that had robbed his face of the bronze tinge of outdoor life and had given it red and swollen lines and shades of beastly greed.  Benton had made a bad man worse.