We strolled into one of the rooms in which the play was on.  The game was at its height, with huge stacks of chips upon the tables and the players chatting gayly.  There was no large crowd there, however.  Indeed, as we found afterward, it was really in the afternoon that it was most crowded, for it was rather a poolroom than a gambling joint, although we gathered from the gossip that some stiff games of bridge were played there.  Both men and women were seated at the poker game that was in progress before the little green table.  The women were richly attired and looked as if they had come from good families.

We were introduced to several, but as it was evident that they were passing under assumed names, whatever the proprietor of the place might know of them, I made little effort to remember the names, although I did study the faces carefully.

It was not many minutes before we met Miss Lottie, as everyone called the woman who presided over this feminine realm of chance.  Miss Lottie was a finely gowned woman, past middle age, but remarkably well preserved, and with a figure that must have occasioned much thought to fashion along the lines of the present slim styles.  There seemed to be a man who assisted in the conduct of the place, a heavy-set fellow with a closely curling mustache.  But as he kept discreetly in the offing, we did not see much of him.

Miss Lottie was frankly glad to see us, coming so well introduced, and outspokenly disappointed that we would not take a seat in the game that was in progress.  However, Garrick passed that over by promising to come around soon.  Excise laws were apparently held in puny respect in this luxurious atmosphere, and while the hospitable Miss Lottie went to summon a servant to bring refreshments—­at our expense—­we had ample opportunity to glance about at the large room in which we were seated.

Garrick gazed long and curiously at an arc-light enclosed in a soft glass globe in the center of the ceiling, as though it had suggested an idea of some sort to him.

Miss Lottie, who had left us for a few moments, returned unexpectedly to find him still gazing at it.

“We keep that light burning all the time,” she remarked, noticing his gaze.  “You see, in the daytime we never use the windows.  It is always just like it is now, night or day.  It makes no difference with us.  You know, if we ever should be disturbed by the police,” she rattled on, “this is my house and I am giving a little private party to a number of my friends.”

I had heard of such places but had never seen one before.  I knew that well-dressed women, once having been caught in the toils of gambling, and perhaps afraid to admit their losses to their husbands, or, often having been introduced through gambling to far worse evils, were sent out from these poker rendezvous to the Broadway cafes, there to flirt with men, and rope them into the game.

I could not help feeling that perhaps some of the richly gowned women in the house were in reality “cappers” for the game.  As I studied the faces, I wondered what tragedies lay back of these rouged and painted faces.  I saw broken homes, ruined lives, even lost honor written on them.  Surely, I felt, this was a case worth taking up if by any chance we could put a stop or even set a limitation to this nefarious traffic.