The chosen group faced her while the others pressed up in anticipation. From a pocket in her red-and-white clown's blouse Miss Smith produced a sheaf of folded bits of tissue paper.
"One of these papers bears a number," she went on, as she made a selection of twelve slips from the handful. "All the others are blank. I know which one is marked, but no one else does. Now then, take a slip, each of you. The person who draws the numbered slip is It."
In mock solemnity each of the selected twelve in turn drew from between Miss Smith's fingers a colored scrap.
"Mine's a blank," called out Miss Vane, opening her bit of paper.
"Mine too."
"And mine."
"And mine is."
"Who has it, then?"
"I seem to have drawn the fatal number," said Madame Ybanca, holding up her slip for all to see the markings on it.
"So you have," agreed Miss Smith. "Now then, everybody pick out a black handkerchief from this box—they're all exactly alike. Not you, though, madame. I'll have to prepare you for your rôle myself." So saying, she took one of the handkerchiefs and folded it into a long flat strip.