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“Listen, please, everybody!” she called, and the motley company, obeying the summons, clustered about her. “The musicians won’t be here until midnight. After they have come and after we’ve had supper there will be dancing. But until midnight we are going to play games–old games, such as I’m told they played in England two hundred years ago on May Day and on All Fools’ Day and on Halloween. There’ll be no servants about and no one to bother us and we’ll have these rooms to ourselves to do just as we please in.”

A babble of politely enthusiastic exclamations rose. The good-looking widow could always be depended upon to provide something unusual when she entertained.

“I’ve asked my cousin, Mildred, to take charge of this part of our party,” went on the hostess. “She has been studying up on the subject, I believe.” She looked about her. “Oh, Mildred, where are you?”

“Here,” answered Miss Smith, emerging from a corner, pretty Madame Ybanca coming with her. “Madame Ybanca has on such marvellous, fascinating old jewelry to-night; I was just admiring it. Are you ready to start?”

“Quite ready, if you are.”

Crossing to the one table in sight Miss Smith took the party-coloured cover from a big square cardboard box. Seemingly the box was filled to the top with black silk handkerchiefs; thick, heavy black handkerchiefs they were.

“As a beginning,” she announced, “we are going to play a new kind of Blind Man’s Buff. That is to say, it may be new to us, though some of our remote ancestors no doubt played it a century or so back. In the game we played as children one person was blindfolded and was spun about three times and then had to lay hands upon one of the others, all of whom were duty bound to stand where they were, without moving or speaking–but you remember, I’m sure, all of you? In this version the rules are different, as you’ll see.

“First we’ll draw lots to see who’s going to be It, as we used to say when we were kiddies. Wait a minute though–it will take too long to choose from among so many. I think I’ll save time by finding a victim in this little crowd here.” And she indicated ten or twelve who chanced to be clustered at her right.

“You, Mr. Polk, and you, Miss Vane, and you and you and you–and, oh yes, I’ll take in Madame Ybanca too; she makes an even dozen. I shan’t include myself, because I rather think I had better act as referee and general factotum until you learn the game.”

The chosen group faced her while the others pressed up in anticipation. From a pocket in her red-and-white clown’s blouse Miss Smith produced a sheaf of folded bits of tissue paper.

“One of these papers bears a number,” she went on, as she made a selection of twelve slips from the handful. “All the others are blank. I know which one is marked, but no one else does. Now then, take a slip, each of you. The person who draws the numbered slip is It.”

In mock solemnity each of the selected twelve in turn drew from between Miss Smith’s fingers a colored scrap.

“Mine’s a blank,” called out Miss Vane, opening her bit of paper.

“Mine too.”

“And mine.”

“And mine is.”

“Who has it, then?”

“I seem to have drawn the fatal number,” said Madame Ybanca, holding up her slip for all to see the markings on it.

“So you have,” agreed Miss Smith. “Now then, everybody pick out a black handkerchief from this box–they’re all exactly alike. Not you, though, madame. I’ll have to prepare you for your role myself.” So saying, she took one of the handkerchiefs and folded it into a long flat strip.

“Now, madame, please put your arms back of you–so! You see, I’m going to tie your hands behind your back.”

“Oh, does everybody have to be tied?” demanded Miss Vane.

“No, but everybody excepting the madame must be blindfolded,” stated Miss Smith. “I’ll explain in just one minute when I’m done with the madame here.” With fast-moving fingers she firmly drew the handkerchief about the young matron’s crossed wrists. Madame Ybanca uttered a sharp little “Ouch!”