Big Jim Grood, standing across the lobby, shook his head in silent negation in response to Bowman's unspoken inquiry.
Bowman courteously terminated the conversation.
The evening closed without further event.
The next day was a repetition of the other—a day spent in relaxation, rest, basking in the brilliant sunshine, dressing for dinner and then a sojourn at the tables.
Bowman was not lucky.
A crowd of hangers-on watched his every play, gave muttered comments of approval when he won a bet. He was about to get hot. He was getting ready for another winning streak, and so on.
But Bowman rigidly confined his losses to two hundred and fifty dollars, made for the most part in small bets. Once or twice, when he would have a temporary winning streak, he would plunge by increasing the size of the bets, only to drop immediately to lower stakes when the winning streak failed.
When he had lost two hundred and fifty dollars he turned away from the tables.
The croupiers exchanged glances. This was the type of man who presented the most deadly menace to a gambling house, the man who would limit his losses to a fixed amount, but who was prepared to win everything that the bank had in sight.
Bowman strolled out into the tropical night, watched the blazing stars, the hills silhouetted against the sky. A woman's low laugh sounded at his elbow.
"Pardon the intrusion," she said, "but I take it you don't understand Spanish?"
"No," Bowman said, "I don't. Why?"
"You should have heard the conversation after you left the tables," she said. "They were laying for you tonight. The fact that you took away your winnings of last night and have managed to hang on to them is causing quite a bit of consternation."
Bowman's laugh was contagious.
"Unfortunately," he said, "I gamble to win, or, perhaps I should say, I gamble for amusement, and I cannot derive amusement from being a sucker."
They both laughed lightly.
"You," asked Bowman, "have perhaps been fortunate at the tables?"
"Not I," she said. "I'm down here with my father. He is so afraid that I'll get what he calls the 'gambling fever' that he keeps a wary and watchful eye on me. In fact, he'd probably keenly disapprove if he knew that I had started a conversation with you without the formality of a conventional introduction."
Bowman laughed again, light-heartedly.
"You mean he's rather old fashioned?" he asked.
"Only so far as his daughter is concerned," she said. "Other people's daughters he likes to see right up to the minute, but he is strong for the conventions as far as his own household is concerned. Tell me, you don't think me forward, do you?"
"I think you wonderful," he answered, bowing.
"My name," she said, "is Evelyn Brokay and I'm lonesome as the devil down here. My dad has a few cronies he enjoys, and it leaves me pretty much isolated."
Bowman gave her his name, bowed low and acknowledged his pleasure, assured her that he felt any modern young woman had a right to pick her friends, regardless of the outworn formalities of conventional introductions, particularly at resorts where the very nature of the place was such that the less desirable class was excluded.
"If," she said, "my father should catch us talking together, he'd be displeased unless he thought we were old friends. You'd forgive a white lie, wouldn't you?"
Jax Bowman laughed.
"Forgive it," he said, "I'd welcome it!"
"I wonder," she said, "if you'd like to stroll—" She broke off with a gasp.
Bowman looked at her sharply. Her eyes were wide, startled, staring at a portly figure that came walking along the tiled balcony with purposeful insistence.
"That's father now," she whispered.
A masculine voice that was cold with displeasure said, "Evelyn, I thought you were in the Casino."
"I was, father," she said, "but I recognized an old acquaintance in Mr. Bowman. Permit me, father, to introduce Mr. Bowman. My father, Mr. Bowman.
"Mr. Bowman," she went on, "was on the President Hoover when I took my cruise to the Orient. It seems like old times to see him again. We were swapping reminiscences of the cruise."
The frown of austere disapproval faded from the man's face. His eyes twinkled with ready good nature. A well shaped mouth broke into an affable smile under a close-cropped iron-gray mustache. His hand shot out, gripped Bowman's hand with a cordial squeeze.
"I'm mighty glad to meet you, Mr. Bowman," he said, "very glad indeed for Evelyn's sake that she had found some friend here. I'm afraid I was a little short sighted in planning a trip down here without arranging company for her. Are you going to be here long?"
"I am leaving within a very short time," Bowman said, "although my plans are more or less indefinite. I'm on a vacation and I want to see something of the country. I thought some of going to Hollywood."
Brokay nodded, turned to Evelyn.
"Why don't you invite Mr. Bowman to spend a day or two with us in Hollywood," he said. "We'll be going back as soon as I've concluded this business deal, and you could drive him around and show him some of the sights. You might even be able to get him admitted to a studio where they were taking pictures."
She smiled at Jax Bowman.
"Oh," she said, "please come, we'd like it so much."
Bowman simulated embarrassment.
"Come on, young man," said Brokay in cordial insistence, "here in the West we don't take no for an answer when it's the question of giving hospitality. Don't be afraid we'll treat you with too much formality, because we won't. You'll just be home folks. My daughter and I live in the house with a housekeeper. I can assure you you'd be very welcome indeed."
"I have a friend with me," Bowman said lamely.
"Bring your friend, by all means," Brokay boomed. "Good heavens, man, give us a chance to show some of our Southern California hospitality. Say that you will."
The young woman squeezed his arm.
"Please," she breathed in an undertone.
"I'll make a conditional promise," Bowman said. "I will if business doesn't interfere."
"Fine," said the older man and turned away.
"Be seeing you later," he said. "I was just trying to find out where Evelyn had gone and I've got a very important conference on."
The young woman turned to Bowman as the distinguished, well tailored figure of the man with the iron-gray mustache moved through one of the light-flooded entrances to the lobby.
"Oh," she said, "what an awful mess! That's what comes of telling a white lie, but I'm afraid you've got to be a sport and keep up the deception. You see, my father might get very suspicious. I don't ordinarily deceive him. I don't know why I did it this time, but if he should feel you weren't an old friend—well, I'm afraid my allowance would be cut and my new motor car would go by the board."
Bowman laughed lightly.
"Well," he said, "if it's a question of helping you out by keeping up the deception, I can't imagine anything that would be more pleasant."
Her hand gave his arm a convulsive squeeze.
"Oh, you dear!" she exclaimed.
"That is, of course," Bowman qualified, "if business doesn't interfere."
"It won't," she said; "it can't."
And at that moment Big Jim Grood, strolling out into the night, caught sight of the girl's face where light from an open window streamed upon it, and nodded an emphatic assent.
Jax Bowman sighed.
"Well," he said, "I guess we'll have to follow the old axiom. If business interferes with pleasure, cut out the business."
CHAPTER III.
THE BAIT.
To the casual observer, the big house was typical of the Spanish type residences occupied by the more wealthy class of Los Angeles citizens.