Paschics laid down the last telegram, and looked expectantly at his employer.
“This is the sort of thing that only a woman would do, and there is only one woman who could have done it,” said Cyril. He was playing idly with a paper-knife as he sat at the table.
“But what is to be done, Excellency?” demanded Paschics, with anxious eagerness. Cyril buried his face in his hands without replying, and sat silent for some time. When he raised his head his face was haggard.
“Leave it for a while,” he said. “Mansfield, get out the chessboard, and we will have a game.”
The others stared at him in bewilderment, but Mansfield obeyed. It had become rather unusual for them to play, since Cyril invariably won, which deprived the contests of all their interest. This time, however, Mansfield won easily. To his astonishment he saw great drops standing on his employer’s brow when he looked up.
“Another!” said Cyril hoarsely.
Mansfield set the board afresh, and perceiving from his antagonist’s keen anxiety that he attached some special importance to this particular game, determined to play so carelessly as to make it impossible for him not to win. Perhaps he was in the mood to regard a victory here as a good omen for his success with regard to the larger issues at stake. But Cyril saw the intention, and dashed his fist down on the board.
“For heaven’s sake, Mansfield, don’t humour me as if I was a child! I haven’t come to that yet. Play your hardest.”
Rearranging the pieces, Mansfield obeyed, and won the game with ludicrous ease, not daring to glance at his opponent’s face. Cyril sat for a moment playing with the pieces, then pushed his chair back and stood up.
“I believe my brain’s gone,” he said unsteadily. “I can think of nothing. The game is up, Paschics. It must all go.”