"I'm ready for a hand, Miss Belcher," he announced quietly: "only let it be something quiet--a rubber for choice." "Half-guinea points ?" asked somebody.
"Yes, if you will." I heard them settle to cards, and their voices sink to a murmur.
Now and again a few coins clinked, and one of the guests yawned.
"You're as melancholy as gib-cats," announced Miss Belcher.
"The next that yawns, I'll send him out to fetch in that badger.
Tell us a story, somebody." "I heard the beginning of a queer one," said Mr.Whitmore in his deliberate voice.

"The folks were discussing it at Torpoint Ferry as I crossed.

There's, been a murder at Plymouth, either last night or this morning." "A murder?
Who's the victim ?" "An old Jew, living on the Barbican or thereabouts.

My deal, is it not ?" "What's his name ?" "His name ?" Mr.Whitmore seemed to be considering.

"Wait a moment, or I shall misdeal." After a pause, he said, "A Spanish-sounding one--Rodriguez, I think.