It was
a somewhat pretentious modern house, half hidden by a high hedge. The
window-shades were drawn, the doors were closed. The only signs of life
about the place were a porch chair, still rocking as if from recent
occupation, and a thin blue scarf that had evidently been dropped in
sudden flight.
Mr. Bangs let himself in with a latch-key, and led the way into a big
dreary room that was evidently meant for a library. A handsome suite of
regulation mahogany furniture did its best to justify the room's claim to
its title, but rows of empty bookshelves yawned derision at the pretense.
Mr. Bangs lit the electrolier, and, motioning Quin to a chair, sat down
heavily. Now that he had achieved a guest, he seemed at a loss to know
what to do with him.
"Do you play chess?" he asked abruptly.
"I can play 'most anything," Quin boasted. "Poker's my specialty."
For an hour they bent over the chess-board, and Quin was conscious of
those piercing black eyes studying him and grimly approving when he made
a good play. For the first time, he began to rather like Mr. Bangs, and
to experience a thrill of satisfaction in winning his good opinion.
Only once was the game interrupted.
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