There was some rather heavy play at Mr. Machfield’s private establishment--heavier than usual, and this gave the proprietor of the house cause for uneasiness. If Mr. Reeder had reported his visit that afternoon to the police, and they thought the moment expedient, there would be a raid to-night, and in preparation for this all the doors leading to the mews at the back were unfastened, and a very powerful car was waiting with its engine running. Mr. Machfield might or might not use that method of escape. On the other hand, he could follow his invariable practice, which was to appear amongst those present as a guest: a fairly simple matter, because he was not registered as the proprietor of the house, and he could trust his servants. Certainly the car would have its uses, if everything went right and there was no untoward incident. Just lately, however, there had been one or two little hitches in the smooth running of his affairs, and, being superstitious, he expected more. He looked at his watch; his appointment with Ena was at midnight, but she had promised to ’phone through before then. At a quarter to nine, as he stood watching the players, there came a newcomer at the tail of three others. He was in evening dress, as were the majority of people round the board, and he looked strangely out of place in those surroundings, though his blue chin was newly shaved and his black hair was glossy with pomade, and in the lapel of his coat he wore a dazzling gardenia. Mr. Machfield watched him wander aimlessly around the table, and then caught his eye and indicated that he wished to see him. Soon afterwards he walked out of the room and Mr. Kingfether followed. “You’re rather silly to come to-night, K,” said Mr. Machfield. “There’s just a chance of a raid--Reeder was here this afternoon.” The manager’s jaw dropped. “Is he here now?” he asked, and Mr. Machfield smiled at the foolishness of the question. “No, and he won’t be coming to-night, unless he arrives with a flying squad. We’ll keep that bird out at any rate.” “Where is Ena?” asked Kingfether. “She’ll be in later,” lied Machfield. “She had a bit of a headache, and I advised her not to come.” The bank manager helped himself to a whisky from a decanter on the sideboard. “I’m very fond of that girl,” said Kingfether. “Who isn’t?” asked the other. “To me”--there was a tremor in the younger man’s voice--“she is something outside of all my experience. Do you think she’s fond of me, Machfield?” “I am sure she is,” said the other heartily; “but she’s a woman of the world, you know, my boy, and women of the world do not carry their hearts on their sleeves.” He might have added, that, in the case of Ena she carried the business equivalent of that organ up her sleeve, ready for exhibition to any susceptible man, young or old. “Do you think she’d marry me, Machfield?”