The last electric car went down Kearney Street, getting under way with a long minor wail.

Occasionally a belated coupe, a nighthawk, rattled over the cobbles, while close by, from over the roofs, the tall slender stack upon the steam laundry puffed incessantly, three puffs at a time, like some kind of halting clock.

The room became more and more close, none of them would take the time to open the window, from ceiling to floor the air was fouled by their breathing, by the tobacco smoke and by the four flaring gas-jets.

By this time a sombre excitement burnt in their eyes and quivered in their fingers.

Never for an instant did their glances leave the cards.