Here quite a crowd was gathered about the board. Evidently the playing was of a sort to attract unusual attention, and Barry made his way forward to a place from which he had a fair view of the table. Half a dozen men were sitting there, betting at irregular intervals, but the attention of the onlookers seemed given entirely to one individual, whom Lawrence could not quite see from where he stood. A bit of smooth black hair, a portion of a low forehead, and now and again a hand stretching out to place his bets, was all that came within the Harvard fellow’s vision. It was enough, however, to show him very swiftly that the man, whoever he was, was plunging heavily. He was also having a spell of the most persistent ill luck, for in the few minutes that Barry stood there he saw something like six hundred dollars swept in by the expressionless dealer. "Wonder who he is?" Lawrence thought. "Some millionaire, I suppose, throwing away his car fare." Then, more because he had nothing else to do than from any real curiosity on the subject, he strolled around to the other side of the table, and glanced over another man’s shoulder. In a second he had stiffened slightly, and his features seemed suddenly to become tense and alert and eager. The individual who was betting as if a hundred-dollar bill was so much trash to be thrown away without a qualm, was no millionaire, or anything like it. He was the man who, more than any other, had been active in bringing disgrace upon Barry Lawrence—Julian Farr, the cashier of the Beekman Trust Company. *CHAPTER XX.* *THE MAN WHO LOST.* For a second Barry stood with eyes riveted on the florid face, with its blue-black shadow of heavy beard darkening the clean-shaven cheeks and chin. Then he stepped swiftly back out of sight, and, turning, pretended to examine a painting hanging on the wall near by. He scarcely saw the wonderful Corot landscape, however, for his brain was fairly seething with the discovery he had just made, the significance of which he realized in a flash. Julian Farr received, to his positive knowledge, a salary of ten thousand dollars a year, and the manner in which he lived must use up every penny of it. Yet here he was gambling recklessly in a place like Dean’s. In an instant Lawrence knew where those missing funds had gone as surely as if the proof in every smallest detail lay before him. Farr had stolen them! He was the thief who had so cleverly foisted the blame upon an innocent man’s shoulders. For a moment Barry was furiously angry. He wanted to catch the fellow by the scruff of his neck and thrash him within an inch of his miserable life. It was impossible, of course, and Barry knew it; but he wanted terribly to do it, just the same.