“I’ve no right to say it, perhaps, but I only surmise—he’ll play you for a half-crown at any time, if you’re rash enough to venture. He plays a wonderful game.”
“Is he new to the place?”
“O, no! I’ve seen him here frequently, though at long intervals.”
“Well, I think I’ll go and watch them.”
Their table was against the wall, opposite the window. One or two devotees were already established behind the players, mutely following the moves. I took up a position near Le Sage, but out of his range of vision. He had never, to my knowledge, so much as raised his face since I entered the room; intent on his game, he appeared oblivious to all about him. Yet the moment I came to a stand, his voice, and only his voice, accosted me,—
“Mr. Bickerdike? How do you do, sir?”
I confess I was startled. After all, there was something disconcerting about this surprise trick of his. It was just a practised pose, of course; still, one could not help feeling, and resenting in it, that impression of the preternatural it was no doubt his desire to convey. I responded, with some commonplace acknowledgment, to the back of his head, and no more was spoken for the moment. Almost immediately the game came to an end. M. le Baron sat back in his chair with a “My mate, I think?”—a claim in which his opponent acquiesced. Half the pieces were still on the board, but that made no difference. Your supreme chess expert will foresee, at a certain point in the contest, all the possible moves to come or to be countered, and will accept without dispute the inevitable issue. The great man Stothard was beaten and acknowledged it.
M. le Baron rose from his seat, and turned on me with a beaming face.
“Happy to renew your acquaintance, Mr. Bickerdike,” he said. “You are a student of the game?”
“Not much better, I think,” I answered. “I am still in my novitiate.”