“It’s no use!” he muttered, in disgust. “A detective would laugh at me for trying to find a fugitive in such a manner. Yes, he would laugh at me for thinking a chap who had just stolen more than eight hundred dollars would stop so soon after taking to flight. “Still, to me there seems two reasons why Hodge may have stopped here. If he had not taken money he might not have thought it necessary to get further away. If he did take it, he may have thought it would be easier to stop him by means of telegrams if he continued his flight by train than it would if he dropped off here and lost himself in this city.” This reasoning did not give Merry much comfort. He began to realize that he was hungry. He had not felt the need of food before, so eager had he been to investigate the hotel registers. Coming to what seemed like a respectable restaurant, he went in and gave an order. He sat down near a table at which two men were eating. He noticed that, although they made a display of flashy jewelry, they were rather tough-looking chaps, decidedly sporty in their dress. One of them had a thick neck and close-cropped hair, while his face resembled that of a bulldog. The other addressed him as “Mul,” or “Muldoon.” It soon became evident that the other man’s name was Rafferty. He had long, slim hands, with fingers that squirmed in a snakish manner. His eyes were restless and watchful. Frank had a theory that most men betray the profession they follow by the language they use. While he was waiting for his order to be served he unconsciously listened to the talk of the two men. “Well, Muldoon,” said the fellow with the snaky fingers. “I’ve taken your tip and shoved up a good wad on the sucker.” “An’ yer all right, my boy,” asserted the owner of the bulldog face. “Dat chap ain’t so much of a sucker as some folks take him fer. Jest ’cause he comes from Chicago dey gives him dat name.” “You feel sure he’ll brand the Maverick?” “Do I? Well, say, ef I had a million I’d put it on dat. If he ever lands dat left maul on Kansas Jim’s neck der Maverick won’t know wot hit him.” “There is no cold deck in this game, is there? It’s to be a square game with no holdout?” “Say, want me ter tell yer somethin’?” “Sure.” “Der Maverick’s up ag’in it.” “No?” “Dat’s straight.” “How do you know? Won’t he have a show?” “He’ll never do up Hanks.” “Then he’s playing against marked cards?” “It’s dis way: It’ll be on der level jest as long as it can be, but if dey see Jim’s gittin’ der woist of it—well, he’ll be t’rowed down.” “How?” “Dunno yit.” “How do you know so much?” “I’m on der inside, I told yer. I can’t give erway der boys wot puts me onter der game, but dey’ve tole me ter tip me friends off ter lay their long green on der Sucker.”