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Her heart throbbed on again with hard, uneven strokes. She was straining her ears for the sound of his voice–that voice that had once spoken to her quivering soul, pleading with her that she would at their next meeting treat him–without prejudice. The memory thrilled through her. This was the man for whose coming she had waited so long!

He had straightened himself again, and was coming round the table to follow up his stroke. Fletcher Hill spoke at her shoulder.

“Sit down!” he said. “There is room here.”

There was a small space on the corner of the raised settee that ran along the side of the room. Dot and Adela sat down together. Hill stood beside them, looking over the faces of the men present, with keen eyes that missed nothing.

Dot sat palpitating, her hands clasped before her, seeing only the great figure that leaned over the table for another stroke. Would he look at her again? Would he remember her? Would he speak?

Fascinated, she watched him. He executed his stroke, again with that steady confidence, that self-detachment, that seemed to set him apart from all other men. He was standing close to her now, and the nearness of his presence thrilled her. She tingled from head to foot, as if under the power of an electric battery.

His late opponent stood facing her on the other side of the table, a grey-haired man with crafty eyes that seemed to look in all directions at the same time. She took an instinctive dislike to him. He wore a furtive air.

Warden stood up again, moving with that free swing of his as of one born to conquer. He turned deliberately and faced them.

“Good evening, Mr. Hill!” he said. “I’m standing drinks all round. I hope you will join us.”

It was frankly spoken, and Hill’s instant refusal sounded unnecessarily curt in Dot’s ears.

“No, thanks. I am with ladies,” he said. “I suppose the play is over?”

Warden glanced across the table. “Unless Harley wants his revenge,” he said.

The grey-haired man uttered a laugh that was like the bark of a vicious dog. “I’ll have that another day,” he said. “It won’t spoil by keeping. You are a player yourself, Mr. Hill. Why don’t you take him on?”

“Oh, do!” burst forth Adela. “I should love to see a good game. You ask him to, Dot! He’ll do it for you.”

But Dot sat silent, her fingers straining against each other, her eyes fixed straight before her, seeing yet unseeing, as one beneath a spell.

There was a momentary pause. The room was full of the harsh babel of men’s voices. The drinks were being distributed.

Suddenly a voice spoke out above the rest. “Here’s to the new manager! Good luck to him! Bill Warden, here’s to you! Success and plenty of it!”

Instantly the hubbub increased a hundredfold. Bill Warden swung round laughing to face the clamour, and the tension went out of Dot. She drooped forward with a weary gesture. As in a dream she heard the laughter and the shouting. It seemed to sweep around her in great billows of sound. But she was too tired to notice, too tired to care. He did not know her. She was sure of that now. He had forgotten. The memory that had affected her so poignantly had slipped like a dim cloud below his horizon. The glory had departed, and life was grey and cold.

“You are tired,” said Fletcher’s voice beside her. “Would you like to go?”

She looked up at him. His eyes were searching hers, and swiftly she realized that this discovery that she had made must be kept a secret. If Hill began to suspect, he would very quickly ferret out the truth, and the man would be ruined. She knew Hill’s stern justice. He would act instantly and without mercy if he knew the truth.

She braced herself with a great effort to baffle him. “No, oh, no!” she said. “I am really not tired. Do play! I should love to see you play.”