“Thank you.  I believe I will,” answered Constance.  “It’s lonely in a big city without friends.”

“Indeed it is,” agreed Bella LeMar.  “I’ve been watching you for some time and wondering how you stand it.  Now be sure to come, won’t you?”

“I shall be glad to do so,” assured Constance, as they reached their floor and parted at the elevator door.

She had been watching the other woman, too, although she had said nothing about it.

“A friendly little game,” repeated Constance to herself.  “That sounds as if it had the tang of an adventure in it.  I’ll go.”

The Mayfair Arms, in which she had taken a modest suite of rooms, was a rather recherche apartment, and one of her chief delights since she had been there had been in watching the other occupants.

There had been much to interest her in the menage across the hall.  Mrs. Bella LeMar, as she called herself, was of a type rather common in the city, an attractive widow on the safe side of forty, well-groomed, often daringly gowned.  Her brown eyes snapped vivacity, and the pert little nose and racy expression of the mouth confirmed the general impression that Mrs. LeMar liked the good things of life.

Quite naturally, Constance observed, her neighbor had hosts of friends who often came early and stayed late, friends who seemed to exude, as it were, an air of prosperity and high living.  Clearly, she was a woman to cultivate.  Constance felt even more interest in her, now that Mrs. LeMar had pursued a bowing acquaintance to the point of an unsolicited invitation.

“A friendly little game,” she speculated.  “What is the game?”

That night found Constance at the buzzer beside the heavy mahogany door across the hall.  She wore a new evening gown of warm red.  Her face glowed with heightened color, and her nerves were on the qui vive for the unlocking at last of the mystery of the fascinating Mrs. LeMar.

“So glad to see you, my dear,” smiled Bella, holding out her hand engagingly.  “You are just in time.”

Already several of the guests had arrived.  There was an air of bonhomie as Bella presented them to Constance—­a stocky, red-faced man with a wide chest and narrow waist, Ross Watson; a tall, sloping-shouldered man who inclined his head forward earnestly when he talked to a lady and spoke with animation, Haddon Halsey; and a fair-haired, baby-blue eyed little woman gowned in becoming pink, Mrs. Lansing Noble.

“Now we’re all here—­just enough for a game,” remarked Bella in a business-like tone.  “Oh, I beg pardon—­you play, Mrs. Dunlap?” she added to Constance.

“Oh, yes,” Constance replied.  “Almost anything—­a little bit.”

She had already noted that the chief object in the room, after all, appeared to be a round table.  About it the guests seemed naturally to take their places.

“What shall it be to-night—­bridge?” asked Watson, nonchalantly fingering a little pack of gilt-edged cards which Bella had produced.