"Two spades."
"Cigarette? ... Oh, I beg your pardon. By me."
"By."
"I'll double three spades."
There were a dozen tables of bridge in the room, which was filling up with smoke. Anson's eyes met Paula's, held them persistently even when Thayer's glance fell between them....
"What was bid?" he asked abstractedly.
"Rose of Washington Square"
sang the young people in the corners:
"I'm withering there
In basement air——"
The smoke banked like fog, and the opening of a door filled the room with blown swirls of ectoplasm. Little Bright Eyes streaked past the tables seeking Mr. Conan Doyle among the Englishmen who were posing as Englishmen about the lobby.