Turning the corner they came to the largest room in the hotel, which was supplied with four windows, and was called the Lounge, although it was really a hall.  Hung with armour and native embroideries, furnished with divans and screens, which shut off convenient corners, the room was less formal than the others, and was evidently the haunt of youth.  Signor Rodriguez, whom they knew to be the manager of the hotel, stood quite near them in the doorway surveying the scene—­the gentlemen lounging in chairs, the couples leaning over coffee-cups, the game of cards in the centre under profuse clusters of electric light.  He was congratulating himself upon the enterprise which had turned the refectory, a cold stone room with pots on trestles, into the most comfortable room in the house.  The hotel was very full, and proved his wisdom in decreeing that no hotel can flourish without a lounge.

The people were scattered about in couples or parties of four, and either they were actually better acquainted, or the informal room made their manners easier.  Through the open window came an uneven humming sound like that which rises from a flock of sheep pent within hurdles at dusk.  The card-party occupied the centre of the foreground.

Helen and Rachel watched them play for some minutes without being able to distinguish a word.  Helen was observing one of the men intently.  He was a lean, somewhat cadaverous man of about her own age, whose profile was turned to them, and he was the partner of a highly-coloured girl, obviously English by birth.

Suddenly, in the strange way in which some words detach themselves from the rest, they heard him say quite distinctly:—­

“All you want is practice, Miss Warrington; courage and practice—­one’s no good without the other.”

“Hughling Elliot!  Of course!” Helen exclaimed.  She ducked her head immediately, for at the sound of his name he looked up.  The game went on for a few minutes, and was then broken up by the approach of a wheeled chair, containing a voluminous old lady who paused by the table and said:—­

“Better luck to-night, Susan?”

“All the luck’s on our side,” said a young man who until now had kept his back turned to the window.  He appeared to be rather stout, and had a thick crop of hair.

“Luck, Mr. Hewet?” said his partner, a middle-aged lady with spectacles.  “I assure you, Mrs. Paley, our success is due solely to our brilliant play.”

“Unless I go to bed early I get practically no sleep at all,” Mrs. Paley was heard to explain, as if to justify her seizure of Susan, who got up and proceeded to wheel the chair to the door.

“They’ll get some one else to take my place,” she said cheerfully.  But she was wrong.  No attempt was made to find another player, and after the young man had built three stories of a card-house, which fell down, the players strolled off in different directions.

Mr. Hewet turned his full face towards the window.  They could see that he had large eyes obscured by glasses; his complexion was rosy, his lips clean-shaven; and, seen among ordinary people, it appeared to be an interesting face.  He came straight towards them, but his eyes were fixed not upon the eavesdroppers but upon a spot where the curtain hung in folds.