girls if she had heard of Mr. Nat Goodwin's latest wife.
For once the dinner itself was a minor event. It sped rapidly there in the gloom, and few so much as listened to the flashes of Mrs. Bruce's wit—save perhaps the duchess, enviously. It was after the dinner, when Harrowby led his guests to the entertainment above, that interest grew tense.
No gloom in that bright room overhead. A cluster of electric lights shed their brilliance on Mr. Stacy's pet roulette tables, set amid parlor furnishings of atrocious plush. From one corner a faro lay-out that had once flourished on Fifty-eighth Street, New York, beckoned. And on each side, through open doors, might be seen rooms furnished for the game of poker.
Mr. Stacy's assistant, a polished gentleman with a face like aged ivory, presided over the roulette table. He swung the wheel a few times, an inviting smile on his face. Harrowby, his eyes bright, laid a sum of money beside a row of innocent figures. He won. He tried again, and won. Some of the young women pushed close
