The Dangerfield Talisman

J. J. Connington
Boston
Little, Brown, and Company
1927
Note
The characters, places, and events described in this book are entirely imaginary and have no connection, either direct or indirect, with any real persons, places, or events.
“Lucky again, partner,” commented Westenhanger, breaking into Eileen Cressage’s thoughts as he took up the scoring-block. “That’s game and rubber, Douglas. Your mind must be wandering.”
Douglas Fairmile had glanced down the room to where a fair-haired girl was sitting with a rather red-faced man. Douglas’s brows contracted slightly. That fellow Morchard had attempted to monopolise Cynthia this evening; but surely anyone could see that the girl was bored. A persistent creature, Morchard—rather too persistent at times, Douglas felt. Then at the sound of Westenhanger’s voice, his attention came back to the bridge-table.
“Game and rubber?” he repeated. “Sorry, partner. My fault entirely. You see, I’m getting rusty in auction nowadays. It’s nearly gone out at my club; nobody plays it any more. We’re all on to this new game that’s just come in.”
“New game? What new game?” demanded Westenhanger, arranging the cards for his shuffle. “Have the Cardsharpers rediscovered Old Maid or the simple joys of Happy Families? Out with it, Douglas.”
Douglas Fairmile made a gesture as though apologising for Westenhanger.
“Tut! Tut! He’s jealous, poor fellow. My fault for mentioning the Romarin Club. A sore subject with Conway, and no wonder. You know, we have an entrance examination for candidates: test ’em in following suit and remembering what’s trump. And somehow Conway didn’t get in. Or else he was afraid to enter. A sad business, anyhow; don’t let’s dwell on it. So he calls us the Cardsharpers out of spite.”