The room was in deep shadow save for the glow from the hearth and a single broad beam from a bridge lamp which played down upon a chessboard laid out on a small table. At opposite sides of it two silent, intent figures sat as immovably as graven images. If they were aware of McCarty’s appearance they made no sign.
Were they hypnotized, or something? The two of them couldn’t be asleep, sitting bolt upright like that! McCarty waited a good five minutes and then advanced slowly into the room but still they appeared oblivious.
Orbit was sitting forward, his eyes glued on the board, his hands clasped and elbows resting on the arms of the chair but the florid-faced Englishman appeared to be gazing off into space with the intent yet absent look of one absorbed in profound concentration.
Then slowly Orbit’s right hand disengaged itself from the other and he moved a figure upon the board, his hand almost mechanically seeking its former position.
A little smile twitched at the corners of Sir Philip’s mouth and with a swift intake of his breath he moved, sweeping from the board the figure of shining white with which Orbit had just played. The latter instantly lifted his head and raised his eyes to the high, beamed ceiling. With the slight gesture the first sound broke the stillness, as a muffled, barely audible exclamation came from Sir Philip’s throat.
Orbit made one more move and then glanced in amused commiseration at his friend.
“Checkmate, Sir Philip! I shall give you your revenge in London next season!”
“I say! That was damned clever! Led me right into ambush, what? I wish some of the masters could have seen it!—Oh, there you are, McCarty! Are you a chess player, by any chance?”
“No, sir.” McCarty advanced a step farther. “Mr. Orbit, Fu Moy showed me straight in and I waited so as not to disturb you.”
“That’s all right!” Orbit nodded pleasantly. “Our game is over.—You have news for me?”