And suddenly Dot's heart gave a great jerk, and stood still. It was not the first time that those eyes had looked into hers.
The moment passed. He bent himself over the table, poised for a stroke, which she saw him execute a second later with a delicacy that thrilled her strangely. Full well did she remember the deftness and the steadiness of those brown hands. Had they not held her up, sustained her, in the greatest crisis of her life?
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."
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