I glanced quickly at de Cartienne. He seemed profoundly uninterested and was trying to build a house of the cards he had thrown down. Either he must be a perfect actor, or my vague suspicions were very ill-founded at that moment. I could not decide which.
“Had enough cards, Cis?” he asked abruptly.
“Not I. We’ll leave you out for a bit, though. Fothergill and I are going to play ecarté.”
de Cartienne shrugged his shoulders and threw himself on the sofa.
“I pity you, then,” he said drily. “You’ll soon see the back of that little pile of winnings. Fothergill’s a bit too good for you.”
“Well, we shall see,” Cecil answered, laughing confidently. “I’m not a bad hand at ecarté myself.”
They began to play. Presently de Cartienne left the room and returned with two glasses in his hand.
“Have a lemon-squash, Morton?” he asked carelessly. “There’s only a drop of whisky in it.”
I accepted, for I was thirsty, and half emptied at a draught the tumbler which he handed me. As I put down the glass I caught a grim smile on de Cartienne’s sallow face. But what it meant I could not tell, although it made me strangely uneasy.
I watched the play for a few minutes and, to my surprise, Cecil was still winning. Then gradually a powerful, overmastering sleepiness crept over me. I tried to stave it off by walking about, by talking to Milly, by concentrating my thoughts upon the play. It was useless. I felt my eyes closing and the sounds and voices in the room grew dimmer and less distinct. For a while I remained in a semi-conscious state—half awake and half asleep—by sheer force of will. But in the end I was conquered. A mist hung before my eyes and all sound died away. I fell asleep.