The Count lurched forward, his face purple with indignation.  “For shame!” he cried.  “You thought I was blind.  You thought I was like these other—­cattle.  But I know to a dollar—­” He turned to the crowd.  “Here!  I will prove what I say.  McCaskey, bear me out.”

With a show of some reluctance Frank, the younger and the smaller of the two brothers, nodded to the Police lieutenant.  “He’s giving you the straight goods.  He had eight hundred and something on him. when he went up to the cage.”

Rock eyed the speaker sharply.  “How do you know?” said he.

“Joe and I was with him for the last hour and a half.  Ain’t that right, Joe?” Joe verified this statement.  “Understand, this ain’t any of our doings.  We don’t want to mix up in it, but the Count had a thousand dollars, that much I’ll swear to.  He lost about a hundred and forty up the street and he bought two rounds of drinks afterward.  I ain’t quick at figures—­”

Pierce uttered a threatening cry.  He moved toward the speaker, but Rock laid a hand on his arm and in a tone of authority exclaimed:  “None of that, Phillips.  I’ll do all the fighting.”

Ben Miller, who likewise had bestirred himself to forestall violence, now spoke up.  “I’m not boosting for the house,” said he, “but I want more proof than this kind of chatter.  Pierce has been weighing here since last fall, and nobody ever saw him go south with a color.  If he split this poke he must have the stuff on him.  Let Rock search you, Pierce.”

Phillips agreed readily enough to this suggestion, and assisted the officer’s search of his pockets, a procedure which yielded nothing.

“Dat boy’s no t’ief,” ‘Poleon whispered to Rouletta.  “M’sieu’ le Comte has been frisk’ by somebody.”  The girl did not answer.  She was intently watching the little drama before her.

During the search Miller forced his way out of the ring of spectators, unlocked the gate of the cashier’s cage, and passed inside.  “We keep our takin’s in one pile, and I’ll lay a little eight to five that they’ll balance up with the checks to a pennyweight,” said he.  “Just wait till I add up the figgers and weigh—­” He paused; he stooped; then he rose with something he had picked up from the floor beneath his feet.

“What have you got, Ben?” It was Rock speaking.

“Dam’ if I know!  There it is.”  The proprietor shoved a clean, new moose-skin gold-sack through the wicket.

Rock examined the bag, then he lifted an inquiring gaze to Pierce Phillips.  There was a general craning of necks, a shifting of feet, a rustle of whispers.

“Ah!” mockingly exclaimed Courteau.  “I was dreaming, eh?  To be sure!” He laughed disagreeably.

“Is this ‘house’ money?” inquired the redcoat.

Miller shook his head in some bewilderment.  “We don’t keep two kitties.  I’ll weigh it and see if it adds up with the Count’s—­”

“Oh, it will add up!” Phillips declared, his face even whiter than before.  “It’s a plant, so of course it will add up.”