Hill stood beside them, looking over the faces of the men present, with keen eyes that missed nothing.
Dot sat palpitating, her hands clasped before her, seeing only the great figure that leaned over the table for another stroke.

Would he look at her again?
Would he remember her?
Would he speak?
Fascinated, she watched him.

He executed his stroke, again with that steady confidence, that self-detachment, that seemed to set him apart from all other men.

He was standing close to her now, and the nearness of his presence thrilled her.

She tingled from head to foot, as if under the power of an electric battery.
His late opponent stood facing her on the other side of the table, a grey-haired man with crafty eyes that seemed to look in all directions at the same time.