The table, the cards, the tantalus-stand and the empty glasses told their own tale. I was sorry, truly sorry, that Jack should mix with such people—professional gamblers, without a doubt.
Every man-about-town in London knows what a crowd of professional players and blackmailers infest the big hotels, on the look-out for pigeons to pluck. The American bars of London each have their little circle of well-dressed sharks, and woe betide the victims who fall into their unscrupulous hands. I had believed Jack Marlowe to be more wary. He was essentially a man of the world, and had always laughed at the idea that he could be “had” by sharpers, or induced to play with strangers.
I think I must have waited for about a quarter of an hour. As I sat there, I felt overcome by a curious drowsiness, due, no doubt, to the strenuous day I had had, for I had driven down to Ascot in the car, and had gone very tired to bed.
Suddenly, without a sound, the door opened, and a youngish, dark-haired, clean-shaven man in evening dress entered swiftly, accompanied by another man a few years older, tall and thin, whose nose and pimply face was that of a person much dissipated. Both were smoking cigars.
“You are Mr. Biddulph, I believe!” exclaimed the younger. “Marlowe expects you. He’s over the road, talking to the girl.”
“What girl?”
“Oh, a little girl who lives over there,” he said, with a mysterious smile. “But have you brought the cheque?” he asked. “He told us that you’d settle up with us.”
“Yes,” I said, “I have my cheque-book in my pocket.”
“Then perhaps you’ll write it?” he said, taking a pen-and-ink and blotter from a side-table and placing it upon the card-table. “The amount altogether is one thousand one hundred and ten pounds,” he remarked, consulting an envelope he took from his pocket.
“I shall give you a cheque for it when my friend comes,” I said.