Stroke after stroke he executed with flawless accuracy
and with scarcely a pause, moving to and fro about the table without
lifting his eyes from the balls. His play was swift and unswerving, his
score mounted rapidly.
Dot watched him spellbound, not breathing. Hill stood near her, also
closely watching, with brows slightly drawn. Suddenly something impelled
her to look beyond the man at the table, and in the shadow on the farther
side of the room she again saw Harley's face, grey, withered-looking,
with sunken eyes that glared forth wolfishly. He was glancing ceaselessly
from Hill to Warden and from Warden to Hill, and the malice of his glance
shocked her inexpressibly. She had never before seen murderous hate so
stamped upon any countenance.
Instinctively she shrank from the sight, and in that moment Warden's eyes
were lifted for a second from the table. Magnetically hers flashed to
meet them. It was instantaneous, inevitable as the sudden flare of
lightning across a dark sky.
He stooped again to play, but in that moment something had gone out of
him. The stroke he attempted was an easy one; but he missed it
hopelessly.
He straightened himself up with a sharp gesture and looked at Hill. "I am
sorry," he said.
Hill said nothing whatever. Their scores were exactly even. With
machine-like precision he took his turn, utterly ignoring the grumbling
criticisms of his adversary's play that were being freely expressed
around the room.
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