“It isn’t fair,” I said as coolly as I could. “I have my fingers crossed; you are five against one.”
“And to think that there was a murder on that very train,” broke in the lady in yellow. “It was a perfect crescendo of horrors, wasn’t it? And what became of the murdered man, Mr. Blakeley?”
McKnight had the sense to jump into the conversation and save my reply.
“They say good Pittsburgers go to Atlantic City when they die,” he said. “So—we are reasonably certain the gentleman did not go to the seashore.”
The meal was over at last, and once in the drawing-room it was clear we hung heavy on the hostess’ hands. “It is so hard to get people for bridge in September,” she wailed, “there is absolutely nobody in town. Six is a dreadful number.”
“It’s a good poker number,” her husband suggested.
The matter settled itself, however. I was hopeless, save as a dummy; Miss West said it was too hot for cards, and went out on a balcony that overlooked the Mall. With obvious relief Mrs. Dallas had the card-table brought, and I was face to face with the minute I had dreaded and hoped for for a week.
Now it had come, it was more difficult than I had anticipated. I do not know if there was a moon, but there was the urban substitute for it—the arc light. It threw the shadow of the balcony railing in long black bars against her white gown, and as it swung sometimes her face was in the light. I drew a chair close so that I could watch her.
“Do you know,” I said, when she made no effort at speech, “that you are a much more formidable person to-night, in that gown, than you were the last time I saw you?”
The light swung on her face; she was smiling faintly. “The hat with the green ribbons!” she said. “I must take it back; I had almost forgotten.”