ps--only for a half-score seconds. Then
there is noise enough, with plenty of gesticulation. A roar arises that
fills the room; while men rush about wildly, madly, as if in the
courtyard of a lunatic asylum. Some show anger--those who are losers by
the breaking of the bank. Many have won large bets, their stakes still
lying on the table, which they know will not be paid. The croupier has
told them so, confessing his cash-box cleared out at the last
settlement; even this having been effected with the now protested ivory
cheques.

Some gather up their gold or silver, and stow it in safety, growling,
but satisfied that things are no worse. Others are not so lenient.
They do not believe there is a good cause for the suspension, and insist
on being paid in full. They rail at the proprietor of the bank, adding
menace. De Lara is the man thus marked. They see him before them,
grandly dressed, glittering with diamonds. They talk of stripping him
of his _bijouterie_.

"No, gentlemen!" he exclaims, with a sardonic sneer. "Not that, if you
please--not yet. First hear me, and then it will be time for you to
strike."

"What have you to say?" demands one, with his fists full of ivory
counters, unredeemed.

"Only that I'm not the _owner_ of this bank, and never have been."

"Who is, then?" ask several at the same time.

"Well; that I can't tell you just now; and, what's more, I _won't_. No,
that I won't."

The gambler says this with emphasis, and an air of sullen determination,
that has its effect upon his questioners--even the most importunate.
For a time it stays their talk, as well as action.

Seeing this, he follows it up with further speech, somewhat mere
conciliatory.

"As I've said, gentlemen, I'm not the owner of this concern--only the
dealer of the cards. You ask, who's proprietor of the smashed table.
It's natural enough you should want to know. But it's just as natural
that it ain't my business to tell you. If I did, it would be a shabby
trick; and, I take it, you're all men enough to see it in that light.
If there's any who isn't, he can have my card, and call upon me at his
convenience. My name's Francisco de Lara--or Frank Lara, for short. I
can be found here, or anywhere else in San Francisco, at such time as
may suit anxious inquirers. And if any wants me now, and can't wait,
I'm good this minute for pistols across that bit of board we've just
been seated at. Yes, gentlemen! Any of you