It began first with a game or two after dinner--for the drinks,
apparently--with some lingering customer, at one of the little tables
ranged against the walls of the billiard-room. Schomberg detected the
meaning of it at once. "That's what it was! This was what they were!"
And, moving about restlessly (at that time his morose silent period had
set in), he cast sidelong looks at the game; but he said nothing. It was
not worth while having a row with men who were so overbearing. Even when
money appeared in connection with these postprandial games, into which
more and more people were being drawn, he still refrained from raising
the question; he was reluctant to draw unduly the attention of "plain
Mr. Jones" and of the equivocal Ricardo, to his person. One evening,
however, after the public rooms of the hotel had become empty, Schomberg
made an attempt to grapple with the problem in an indirect way.
In a distant corner the tired China boy dozed on his heels, his back
against the wall. Mrs. Schomberg had disappeared, as usual, between ten
and eleven. Schomberg walked about slowly in and out of the room and
the veranda, thoughtful, waiting for his two guests to go to bed. Then
suddenly he approached them, militarily, his chest thrown out, his voice
curt and soldierly.
"Hot night, gentlemen."
Mr Jones, lolling back idly in a chair, looked up.
Pages:
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147