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He looked sardonic. “Love to see me beaten!” he said.

She put out a quick hand. “Of course not! You will beat him easily. You are always on the top. Do try!”

He smiled a little, and turned from her. She saw him approach Warden and tap him on the shoulder.

Warden wheeled sharply, so sharply that the drink he held splashed over the edge of the glass. The excitement in the room was dying down. She watched the two men with an odd breathlessness, and in a moment she realized that everyone else present was watching them also.

Then they both turned towards her, and through a great singing that suddenly arose in her ears she heard Adela whisper excitedly, “My dear, he is actually going to introduce that amazing person to us!”

She sat up with a stiff movement, feeling cold, inanimate, strangely impotent, and in a moment he was standing before her with Fletcher, and she heard the latter introduce her as his “affianced wife.”

Mutely she gave him her hand. It was Adela who filled in the gap, eager for entertainment, and the next moment Warden had turned to her, and was talking in his careless, leisurely fashion. The ordeal was past, her pulses quieted down again. Yet she realized that he had not addressed a single word to her, and the conviction came upon her that not thus would he have treated one who was a total stranger to him.

Because of Fletcher, who remained beside her, she forced herself to join in the conversation, seconding Adela’s urgent request that the two men would play.

Warden laughed and looked at Fletcher. “Do you care to take me on, sir?” he said.

From the other side of the table, Harley uttered his barking laugh. “Now is your chance, Mr. Hill! Down him once and for all, and give us the pleasure of seeing how it’s done!”

There was venom in the words. They were a revelation to Dot, the almost silent looker-on. It was as if a flashlight had given her a sudden glimpse of this man’s soul, showing her bitter enmity–a black and cruel hatred–an implacable yearning for revenge. She felt as if she had looked down into the seething heart of a volcano.

Then she heard Hill’s voice. “I am quite willing to play,” he said.

A buzz of interest went through the room. The prospective match plainly excited Warden’s many admirers. They drew together, and she heard some low-voiced betting begin.

But this was instantly checked by Fletcher. “I’m not doing it for a gamble,” he said, curtly. “Please keep your money in your pockets, or the match is off!”

They looked at him with lowering glances, but they submitted. It was evident to Dot that they all stood in considerable awe of him–all save Warden, who chalked Hill’s cue with supreme self-assurance, and then lighted a cigarette without the smallest hint of embarrassment.

The match began, and though the gambling had been checked a breathless interest prevailed. Fletcher Hill’s play was not well known at Trelevan, but at the very outset it was evident to the most casual observer that he was a skilled player. He spoke scarcely at all, and his face was masklike in its composure, but Dot, watching, knew with that intuition which of late had begun to grow upon her that he was grimly set upon obtaining the victory. The knowledge thrilled her with a strange excitement. She knew that he was in a fashion desirous of proving himself in her eyes, that he had entered into the contest solely for her.

As for Warden, she believed he was playing entirely to please himself. He took an artistic interest in every stroke, but the ultimate issue of the game did not seem to enter into his calculation. He played like a sportsman, sometimes rashly, often brilliantly, but never selfishly. It was impossible to watch him with indifference. Even his failures were sensational. As Adela had said of him, he was amazing.