CHAPTER VIII When her visitor was gone, Ena opened the letter he had left with her, read a few lines of it, then threw letter and envelope into the fire. Funny, the sameness of men… they all wrote the same sort of stuff… raw stuff dressed up poetically… yet they thought they were being different from all other men. She did not resent these stereotypes of passion, nor did she feel sorry for those who used them. They were just normal experiences. She sat clasping her knees, her eyes alternately on the fire and the sleeping dog. Then she got up, dressed quickly, and, going into Gower Street, found a cab. She was set down at a house in a fashionable Mayfair street, and a liveried footman admitted her and told her there was company. There usually was in the early evening. She found twenty men and women sitting round a green table, watching a croupier with a large green shade over his eyes. He was turning up cards in two rows, and big monies, staked in compartments marked on the green table, went into the croupier’s well or was pushed, with additions, to the fortunate winner. The usual crowd, she noted. One pretty girl looked up and smiled, then turned her eyes quickly and significantly to the young man by her side. Ena found the governor in his room. He was smoking alone and reading the evening newspaper when she came in. “Shut the door,” he ordered. “What is wrong?” “Nothing much. Only Feathers is a bit worried.” She told him why. Mr. Machfield smiled. “Don’t _you_ worry, my pet,” he said kindly. “There has been a murder down his way--did he tell you anything about that? I’ve just been reading about it. I should be surprised if old Reeder didn’t get to the bottom of it--clever fellow, Reeder.” He picked up his newspaper from the floor and his cigar from the ash-tray where he had laid it. “Rather a coincidence, wasn’t it, Ena? Feathers pickin’ on that account--Wentford’s?” She looked at him thoughtfully. “Was it a coincidence?” she asked. “That is what is worrying me. Did he pick on this poor man’s account because he knew that he was going to be dead in a few days? I got a horrible creepy feeling when he was sitting beside me. I kept looking at his hands and wondering if there was blood on them!” “Shuh!” said Mr. Machfield contemptuously. “That rabbit!” He opened a panel in the wall--it was nothing more romantic than a serving hatch when it was built--and glanced at the gamesters. “They’re playing for marbles!” he said in fine scorn. “But they never do play high in the afternoon. Look at Lamontaine: he’s bored sick!” And certainly the croupier did not look happy. He closed the panel. “I suppose you’ll be raided one of these days?” she said. “Sure!” he answered easily. “But I’ve got another couple of houses ready for starting.” “What do you think about Feathers? Will he squeal when they find him out?”