an' I'll treat you handsome.
I'm sorta--"

The entrance of Durade cut short Fresno's further speech. "What are you
saying to her?" demanded Durade, in anger.

"I was jest tellin' her about what a place Benton is," replied Fresno.

"Allie, is that true?" queried Durade, sharply.

"Yes," she replied.

"Fresno, I did not like your looks."

"Boss, if you don't like 'em you know what you can do," rejoined Fresno,
impudently, and he lounged out of the room.

"Allie, these men are all bad," said Durade. "You must avoid them when
my back's turned. I cannot run my place without them, so I am compelled
to endure much."

Allie's attendant came in with her supper and she went to her room.

Thus began Allie Lee's life as an unwilling and innocent accomplice of
Durade in his retrogression from the status of a gambler to that of a
criminal. In California he had played the game, diamond cut diamond. But
he had broken. His hope, spirit, luck, nerve were gone. The bottle and
Benton had almost destroyed his skill at professional gambling.

The days passed swiftly. Every afternoon Durade introduced a new company
to his private den. Few ever came twice. In this there was a grain of
hope, for if all the men in Benton, or out on the road, could only pass
through Durade's hall, the time would come when she would meet Neale or
Larry. She lived for that. She was constantly on the lookout for a man
she could trust with her story. Honest-faced laborers were not wanting
in the stream of visitors Durade ushered into her presence, but either
they were drunk or obsessed by gambling, or she found no opportunity to
make her appeal.

These afternoons grew to be hideous for Allie. She had been subjected to
every possible attention, annoyance, indignity, and insult, outside of
direct violence. She could only shut her eyes and ears and lips.
Fresno found many opportunities to approach her, sometimes in Durade's
presence, the gambler being blind to all but the cards and gold. At such
times Allie wished she was sightless and deaf and feelingless. But after
she was safely in her room again she told herself nothing had happened.
She was still the same as she had always been. And sleep obliterated
quickly what she had suffered. Every day was one nearer to that fateful
and approaching moment. And when that moment did come what would all
this horror amount to? It would fade--be as nothing. She would not let
words and eyes harm her. They were not tang