“Especially the mask,” returned Sylvia, under her breath, and laid on the table the last card of a Yarborough.
Plank scored without comment. Marion cut, and resumed her cigarette. Sylvia dealt with that witchery of rounded wrists and slim fingers fascinating to men and women alike. Then, cards en règle, passed the make. Plank, cautiously consulting the score, made it spades, which being doubled, Grace led a “singleton” ace, and Plank slapped down a strong dummy and folded his great arms.
Toward midnight, Sylvia, absorbed in her dummy, fancied she heard the electric bell ringing at the front door. Later, having barely made the odd, she was turning to look at the major, when, beyond him, she saw Leroy Mortimer enter the room, sullen, pasty-skinned, but perfectly sober and well groomed.
“You are a trifle late,” observed Sylvia carelessly. Grace Ferrall and Marion ignored him. Plank bade him good evening in a low voice.
The people at the other table, having completed their rubber, looked around at Mortimer in disagreeable surprise.
“I'll cut in, if you want me. If you don't, say so,” observed Mortimer.
It was plain that they did not; so he settled himself in an arm-chair, with an ugly glance at his wife and an insolent one at Quarrier; and the game went on in silence; Leila and the major still losing heavily under the sneering gaze of Mortimer.
At last, “Who's carrying you?” he broke out, exasperated; and in the shocked silence Leila, very white, made a movement to rise, but Quarrier laid his long fingers across her arm, pressing her backward.
“You don't know what you're saying,” he remarked, looking coldly at Mortimer.
Plank laid down his cards, rose, and walked over to Mortimer: