Why had Bella LeMar invited her here? she asked herself.

At first Constance was a little bit afraid that she might have plunged into too deep water.  She made up her mind to quit when her losses reached a certain nominal point.  But they did not reach it.  Perhaps the gamblers were too clever.  But Constance seemed always to keep just a little bit ahead of the game.

One person in particular in the group interested her as she endeavored intuitively to take their measure.  It was Haddon Halsey, immaculately garbed, with all those little touches of smartness which women like to see.

Once she caught Halsey looking intently at her.  Was it he who was letting her win at his expense!  Or was his attention to her causing him to neglect his own game and play it poorly?

She decided to quit.  She was a few dollars ahead.  For excuse she pleaded a headache.

Bella accepted the excuse with a cordial nod and a kind inquiry whether she might not like to lie down.

“No, thank you,” murmured Constance.  “But the cards make me nervous to-night.  Just let me sit here.  I’ll be all right in a minute.”

As she lolled back on a divan near the players Constance noted, or thought she noted, now and then exchanges of looks between Bella and Watson.  What was the bond of intimacy between them?  She noted on Mrs. Noble’s part that she was keenly alive to everything that Halsey did.  It was a peculiar quadrangle.

Halsey was losing heavily in his efforts to retrieve his fortunes.  He said nothing, but accepted the losses grimly.  Mrs. Noble, however, after each successive loss seemed more and more nervous.

At last, with a hasty look at her wrist watch, she gave a little suppressed scream.

“How the time flies!” she cried.  “Who would have thought it as late as that?  Really I must go.  I expect my husband back from a director’s meeting at ten, and it’s much easier to be home than to have to think up an excuse.  No, Haddon, don’t disturb yourself.  I shall get a cab at the door.  Let me see—­two hundred and twenty-eight dollars.”  She paused as if the loss staggered her.  “I’ll have to sign another I O U for it, Bella.  There!”

She left in a flutter, as if some one had winked out the light by which she, poor little butterfly, had singed her wings, and there was nothing for her but to fly away alone in the darkness with her secret.

Halsey accompanied her to the door.  For a moment she raised a questioning face to his, and shot a half covert glance at Constance.  Then, as if with an effort, adhering to her first resolution to go alone, she whispered earnestly, “I hope you win.  Luck must turn.”

Halsey plunged back into the game, now with Bella holding a hand.  He played recklessly, then conservatively.  It made no difference.  The cards seemed always against him.  Constance began really to feel alarmed at his manner.