She heard him call, and she heard Fernand’s oily voice make answer.  And at that she shivered.

What had Simonds guessed?  How, under heaven, did he know where she had gone when she left the gaming house?  Or did he know?  Had he not merely guessed?  Perhaps he had been set on by Fernand or Mark to entangle and confuse her?

There remained, out of all this confusion of guesswork, a grim feeling that Simonds did indeed know, and that, for the first time in his life, perhaps, he was doing an unbought, a purely generous thing.

She remembered, now, how often Simonds had followed her with his eyes, how often his face had lighted when she spoke even casually to him.  Yes, there might be a reason for Simonds’ generosity.  But that implied that he knew fairly well what John Mark himself half guessed.  The thought that she was under the suspicion of Mark himself was terrible to her.

She drew a long breath and advanced courageously into the gaming rooms.

The first thing she saw was Fernand hurrying a late comer toward the tables, laughing and chatting as he went.  She shuddered at the sight of him.  It was strange that he, who had, a moment before, in the very cellar of that house, been working to bring about the death of two men, should now be immaculate, self-possessed.

A step farther and she saw John Mark sitting at a console table, with his back to the room and a cup of tea before him.  That was, in fact, his favorite drink at all hours of the day or night.  To see Fernand was bad enough, but to see the master mind of all the evil that passed around her was too much.  The girl inwardly thanked Heaven that his back was turned and started to pass him as softly as possible.

“Just a minute, Ruth,” he called, as she was almost at the door of the room.

For a moment there was a frantic impulse in her to bolt like a foolish child afraid of the dark.  In the next apartment were light and warmth and eager faces and smiles and laughter, and here, behind her, was the very spirit of darkness calling her back.  After an imperceptible hesitation she turned.

Mark had not turned in his chair, but it was easy to discover how he had known of her passing.  A small oval mirror, fixed against the wall before him, had shown her image.  How much had it betrayed, she wondered, of her guiltily stealthy pace?  She went to him and found that he was leisurely and openly examining her in the glass, as she approached, his chin resting on one hand, his thin face perfectly calm, his eyes hazy with content.  It was a habit of his to regard her like a picture, but she had never become used to it; she was always disconcerted by it, as she was at this moment.

He rose, of course, when she was beside him, and asked her to sit down.

“But I’ve hardly touched a card,” she said.  “This isn’t very professional, you know, wasting a whole evening.”

She was astonished to see him flush to the roots of his hair.  His voice shook.  “Sit down, please.”