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days? I got a horrible creepy feeling when he was sitting beside me. I kept looking at his hands and wondering if there was blood on them!”
    “Shuh!” said Mr Machfield contemptuously. “That rabbit!” He opened a panel in the wall – it was nothing more romantic than a serving hatch when it was built – and glanced at the gamesters.
    “They’re playing for marbles!” he said in fine scorn. “But they never do play high in the afternoon. Look at Lamontaine: he’s bored sick!”
    And certainly the croupier did not look happy. He closed the panel.
    “I suppose you’ll be raided one of these days?” she said.
    “Sure!” he answered easily. “But I’ve got another couple of houses ready for starting.”
    “What do you think about Feathers? Will he squeal when they find him out?”
    “Like a stuck pig,” said Mr Machfield. “He’ll go down for nine months and get religion. That’s the kind of fellow who gives the prison chaplain an interest in life. Ena, I’ve got a little job for you.”
    She was alert, suspicious.
    “Nothing much. I’ll tell you all about it. Shall I open a bottle?”
    “Yes, if it’s milk,” she said. “What’s the little job and how much does it carry?”
    “Would you faint if I said a thousand?” he asked, and opened the hatch again, looking through and closing it.
    “Who are you expecting?” she asked. “…all right, don’t be rude. No, thousands never make me faint. Especially when they’re talked about–”
    “Now listen.”
    Mr Machfield was too good a talker to be brief. He led from a preamble to sections, into subsections…
    “One minute.”
    He interrupted his explanation to lift the hatch. She saw him bringing it down; then unexpectedly he raised it again. Was it the effect of odd lighting, or had his face changed colour? He dropped the hatch softly and gaped round at her.
    “Who let him in? That doorman has ‘shopped’ me–”
    “Who is it?” she asked.
    He beckoned her to his side, lifting the panel an inch. “Stoop!” he hissed. “Look…that fellow with the side-whiskers.”
    “Oh – is he anybody?” She did not recognize the visitor. Possibly he was a bailiff; he looked hopelessly suburban, like the people who serve writs. They always wear ready-to-wear ties and coloured handkerchiefs that stick out of their breast pockets.
    “Reeder… J G Reeder!”
    She wanted to raise the hatch and look, but he would not allow this.
    “Go out and see what you can do…wait a bit.”
    He lifted a house telephone and pressed a knob.
    “Who was that fellow…the old fellow with side-whiskers?… Got a card…what name…Reeder?”
    He put down the ’phone unsteadily. Mr Machfield gave small membership cards to the right people. They were issued with the greatest care and after elaborate enquiries had been made as to the antecedents of the man or woman so honoured.
    “Go and get acquainted…he doesn’t know you. Go round through the buffet room and pretend you’ve just come in.”
    When she reached the gaming room, Ena found Mr Reeder was sitting opposite the croupier. How he got that favoured chair was a mystery. His umbrella was between his knees. In front of him was a pile of Treasury notes. He was “punting” gravely, seemingly absorbed in the game.
    “Faites vos jeux, messieurs et mesdames,” said the croupier mechanically.
    “What does he mean by that?” asked Mr Reeder of his nearest neighbour.
    “He means ‘Make your bet,’” said the girl, who had drawn up a chair by his side.
    Mr Reeder made ten coups and won six pounds. With this he got up from the table and recovered his hat from beneath his chair.
    “I always think that the time to – um – stop playing cards is when you’re winning.” He imparted this truth to the young lady, who had withdrawn from the table at the same time.
    “What a marvellous mind you have!” she said enthusiastically.
    Mr Reeder winced.
    “I’m afraid I have,” he said.
    She shepherded him into