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Flood’s cold, steel-gray eyes took on a look of interest.

“What player, Belle?” he slowly demanded.

“Confidentially, mind you, dear fellow!”

“Surely.”

“I refer to Cecil Kendall,” whispered the girl.

“What of him?”

“Gone lame. Short in his accounts.”

“What?”

Flood’s teeth had met with a snap, and his eyes were beginning to blaze.

“Oh, I know what I’m saying,” Belle Braddon pointedly continued. “I’m in the same office with him, you know. When it’s up to me to get wise to all that’s going on, I come mighty near doing it.”

Moses Flood was calm again—strangely, preternaturally calm.

“Do you know how much he is short?”

“Only ninety thousand dollars!” exclaimed the girl, with a leer.

“What is being done about it?”

“Not much as yet, Mose.”

“Tell me what.”

“Oh, Gilsey wants to locate Kendall as quickly as possible, and has called in Nick Carter to do it for him.”

“The dickens! Nick Carter, eh?”

“Gilsey evidently thinks that Kendall believes he has left his tracks covered during his absence, and means to try to carry the deficit a while longer undetected. Gilsey is wise to it, though, but I reckon nothing will be done for a day or so.”