Nan, as a rule, played a good game, but to-day her play was nervous and erratic, and Mallory, her partner of the moment, instinctively connected this with the agitation she had shown on receiving the wire.  Ignorant of its contents, he awaited developments.

He had not very long to wait.  Shortly afterwards the trill of the door-bell pealed through the flat, followed by a sound of footsteps in the hall, and, a minute later, Maryon Rooke came into the room.  A brief stir succeeded his entrance, as Penelope and one or two other non-players exchanged greetings with him.  Then he crossed over to where Nan was playing.  She was acutely conscious of his tall, loose-limbed figure as he threaded his way carefully between the tables.

“Gambling as usual?” he queried, when he had shaken hands.  “And winning—­also as usual—­I suppose?”

“On the contrary,” she retorted.  “I’ve just thrown away a perfectly good trick.  Your arrival distracted my attention.”

Oddly enough, she had complete control of her voice, although her play and the slight trembling of her fingers as she held her cards fan-wise were sufficient indication to Mallory of the deep waters that had been stirred beneath the surface.

“I’m sorry my return has proved so—­inopportune,” returned Rooke.  As he spoke his eyes rested for a reflective moment upon Peter Mallory, then returned challengingly to Nan’s face.  The betraying colour flew up under her skin.  She understood what he intended to convey as well as though he had clothed his thought in words.

“Having none, partner?”

Mallory’s kindly, drawling voice recalled her to the game, and she made an effort to focus her attention on the cards.  But it was quite useless.  Her play grew wilder and more erratic with each hand that was dealt, until at last a good no-trump call, completely thrown away by her disastrous tactics, brought the rubber to an end.

“You’re not in your usual form this afternoon, Nan,” remarked one of her opponents as they all rose from the table.  Other tables, too, were breaking up and some of the guests preparing to leave.

“No.  I’ve played abominably,” she acquiesced.  “I’m sorry, partner”—­turning to Peter.  “It must be the weather.  This heat’s intolerable.”

He put her apology aside with a quick gesture.

“There’s thunder in the air, I think.  You shouldn’t have troubled to play if you didn’t feel inclined.”

Nan threw him a glance of gratitude—­Peter never seemed to fail her either in big or little things.  Then, having settled accounts with her opponents, she moved away to join the chattering knot of departing guests congregated round the doorway.