“Oh, no,” cried Mrs. Noble.  “Bridge is such a bore.”

“Rum?”

“No—­no.  The regular game—­poker.”

“A dollar limit?”

“Oh, make it five,” drawled Halsey impatiently.

Watson said nothing, but Bella patted Halsey’s hand in approval, as if all were on very good terms indeed.  “I think that will make a nice little game,” she cut in, opening a drawer from which she took out a box of blue, red and white chips of real ivory.  Watson seemed naturally to assume the role of banker.

“Aren’t you going to join us?” asked Constance.

“Oh, I seldom play.  You know, I’m too busy entertaining you people,” excused Bella, as she bustled out of the room, reappearing a few minutes later with the maid and a tray of slender hollow-stemmed glasses with a bottle wrapped in a white napkin in a pail of ice.

Mrs. Noble shuffled the cards with practiced hand and Watson kept a calculating eye on every face.  Luck was not with Constance on the first deal and she dropped out.

Mrs. Noble and Halsey were betting eagerly.  Watson was coolly following along until the show-down—­which he won.

“Of all things,” exclaimed the little woman in pink, plainly betraying her vexation at losing.  “Will luck never turn?”

Halsey said nothing.

Constance watched in amazement.  This was no “friendly little game.”  The faces were too tense, too hectic.  The play was too high, and the desire to win too great.  Mrs. LeMar was something more than a gracious hostess in her solicitude for her guests.

All the time the pile of chips in front of Watson kept building up.  At each new deal a white chip was placed in a little box—­the kitty —­for the “cards and refreshments.”

It was in reality one of the new style gambling joints for men and women.

The gay parties of callers on Mrs. LeMar were nothing other than gamblers.  The old gambling dens of the icebox doors and steel gratings, of white-coated servants and free food and drink, had passed away with “reform.”  Here was a remarkable new phase of sporting life which had gradually taken its place.

Constance had been looking about curiously in the meantime.  On a table she saw copies of the newspapers which published full accounts of the races, something that looked like a racing sheet, and a telephone conveniently located near writing materials.  It was a poolroom, too, then, in the daytime, she reasoned.

Surely, in the next room, when the light was on, she saw what looked like a miniature roulette wheel, not one of the elaborate affairs of bright metal and ebony, but one of those that can almost be packed into a suitcase and carried about easily.

That was the secret of the flashily dressed men and women who called on Bella LeMar.  They were risking everything, perhaps even honor itself, on a turn of a wheel, the fall of a card, a guess on a horse.