"You have evidently thought it all out," she said brightly. "But please don't inflict these cheerful theories on my cousin. She is a most tragic being when she loses. She thinks herself, and I believe is, one of the most scientific bridge-players in England, and she cannot be brought to understand why the duffers should have a look in." At this juncture Tommy Esmond interposed. It may have occurred to him that they were wasting precious time. They had come here for the special purpose of gambling. "What do you say to joining the others? We are in the very temple of gambling, and I know my young friend would like a little flutter." "Certainly. When I last peeped in, Amy looked the spirit of despair. I think she must have been losing heavily." She turned to lead the way, but at that instant the door bell rang, and she halted, in readiness to greet the visitor, whoever it might be; and there entered a florid-looking, stout man, who advanced towards her with effusion, and both hands outstretched. "My dear Stella, I have been thinking of you ever since the raid began; I know how terribly you suffer when they are on. And I knew you were dining out to-night. I am rejoiced to see you safe and sound. I came round here the moment I could get away." Miss Keane flushed slightly as he took her hands and wrung them impressively to show his gratitude at her escape from peril. Tommy Esmond had given him a cool nod. But she felt Spencer's calm, critical gaze upon this ebullient expression of young English manhood. It was not so much what he said, as his manner of saying it. Bounder was written all over him, in his appearance, his manners, his gestures. She answered him very briefly, almost curtly, as if she were administering a cold douche. Then the flush deepened as she turned to Spencer. "May I introduce my cousin, Mr Dutton?" The florid man bowed with an exaggerated air of cordiality. Spencer, who had taken a violent dislike to him from the first second he saw him, acknowledged the salutation with chilling gravity; and Stella Keane could almost read his thoughts, as his gaze travelled from one to the other. How could this imperial-looking girl have such an unmitigated bounder for a relative? What was the mystery about her that could make a creature like this claim kinship with her? CHAPTER TEN. Mrs L'Estrange was evidently a great believer in light: the electric bulbs glowed softly, but brilliantly, over the two rooms devoted to the service of the card-players. On the sideboards were arranged decanters of whisky, and soda-water in bottles and syphons. Whether he lost or won, the gambler, triumphant or despairing, could quaff to his success, or solace his despair. The elderly, youthfully-dressed woman advanced towards the new visitors, with a beaming expression of countenance. "Mr Spencer, you will join us. What is your favourite game?"