They needed an extra man at the table that night, so Thomas came down.  He found himself between two jolly young women, opposite Kitty who divided her time between Lord Monckton and a young millionaire who, rumor bruited it, was very attentive to Killigrew’s daughter.  Still, Thomas enjoyed himself.  Nobody seemed to mind that he was only a clerk in the house.  The simpleton did not realize that he was a personage to these people; an English private secretary, quite a social stroke on the part of the Killigrews.

He gathered odd bits of news of what was going on among the summer colonists.  The lady next to Killigrew, a Mrs. Wilberforce, had had a strange adventure the night before.  She and her maid had been mysteriously overpowered by some strange fume, and later discovered that her pearls were gone.  She had notified the town police.  This brought the conversation around to the maharajah’s emeralds.  Hadn’t he and his attendants been overcome in the same manner?  Thomas thought of the sapphires.  Since nobody knew he had them, he stood in no danger.  But there was Kitty’s great fire-opal, glowing like a coal on her breast, seeming to breathe as she breathed.  It was almost as large as a crown-piece.

During lulls Thomas dreamed.  He was going to give himself until thirty to make his fortune; and he was going to make it down there in the wilds of South America.  But invariably the sleepy mocking eyes of Lord Monckton brought him back to earth, jarringly.

Once, Kitty caught Thomas gazing malevolently at Lord Monckton.  No love lost between them, evidently.  It was the ancient story:  to wager, to borrow, to lend, to lose a friend.

Long after midnight Kitty awoke.  She awoke hungry.  So she put on her slippers and peignoir and stole down-stairs.  The grills on each side of the entrance to the main hall were open; that is, the casement windows were thrown back.  She heard voices and naturally paused to learn whose they were.  She would have known them anywhere in the world.

“Tut, tut, Tommy; don’t be a bally ass and lose your temper.”

“Temper?  Lose my temper?  I’m not losing it, but I’m jolly well tired of this rotten business.”

“It was you who suggested the wager; I only accepted it.”

“I know it.”

“And once booked, no Englishman will welch, if he isn’t a cad.”

“I’m not thinking of welching.  But I don’t see what you get out of it.”

“Sport.  And a good hand at bridge.”

“Remarkably good.”

“I say, you don’t mean to insinuate . . .”

“I’m not insinuating.  I’m just damnably tired.  Why the devil did you take up that monocle business?  You never wore one; and Miss Killigrew found out this morning that it was an ordinary glass.”

“She did?” Lord Monckton chuckled.

“And she laughed over it, too.”

“Keen of her.  But, what the devil!  Stick a monocle in your eye, and you don’t need any letters of introduction.  Lucky idea, your telephoning me that you were here.  What a frolic, all around!”