you!" he exclaimed. "Well, I've got a mighty good mind to boost her again. No, I guess I won't, though. Satisfied here."

"Satisfied," echoed Vanulm, and Mott-Smith, as the lead was made, glancing fearfully at his partner's expressionless face, laid down his hand, ace, king and low in two suits, queen and two low in another, and queen, knave and two low in the fourth. Gordon studied the cards for a moment, glanced once at his own hand as if for confirmation, and then played in his turn.

The play of the hand, as the play of a close hand of cards always does, afforded an interesting character study. Vanulm played phlegmatically, cautiously, but with hesitancy and much painstaking effort; Palmer fidgeted in his chair, drummed on the table with his nervous fingers, and occasionally swore under his breath; Gordon played incisively, unhesitatingly, almost mechanically, much as if he had placed every card in the pack, knew already what the final result would be, and regarded the actual fall of the cards as a necessary but scarcely interesting detail of the game. Six tricks to six was the score when Gordon, left with the lead, made good the queen of Mott-Smith's long suit, Palmer's carefully treasured ace of spades falling useless, and game and rubber were won.

Mott-Smith made no attempt to conceal his relief. "That was great, Gordon!" he cried. "You did wonders. You couldn't have played it better if you'd tried."

Palmer scowled, and bit his lip with vexation. "What an ass I was!" he exclaimed irritably, "carrying home an ace like that. What the deuce did I want to double for, anyway? Then they couldn't have gone out. I'm awfully sorry, Vanulm."

The brewer shrugged his big shoulders philosophically. "Don't worry, Palmer," he said kindly. "It's all in a lifetime; anyway, we made them work. Have we time for another?"

Mott-Smith consulted his watch. He knew that the last hand must have left him a little better than even, and he hated to tempt Fate again, and perhaps pay for it with a sleepless night. "It's almost twelve," he demurred, "but if you fellows want to play another game—"

Vanulm smiled quietly. He knew of Mott-Smith's means, or rather lack of them, and his consequent little eccentricities. Therefore he yawned out of pure good fellowship. "It is late," he agreed. "I'm getting sleepy myself. What do you say, Gordon?"

Gordon shrugged his shoulders. "Don't ask me," he answered indolently. "I believe up to date I'm the heavy winner. Stop now or play till morning. It's all one to me."

With a sudden impatient gesture Palmer swept the cards together. "Let's cut it out!" he cried. "We've had enough bridge, and, besides, I've got something I want to tell you fellows. It isn't really supposed to be out until to-morrow, but it's so near that I guess it's all right."

He paused a moment, as if uncertain how to proceed, while the others gazed at him curiously without speaking.

Then Gordon broke the silence. "This sounds suspicious, Harry," he said quizzically. "'Out tomorrow' has come to mean only one thing nowadays."

Palmer caught at the offered opening with evident relief. "That's what it is!" he cried. "I've had enough of sporting around, and I'm going to quit it and settle down. You all know who she is. May Sinclair, General Sinclair's daughter, and I think I'm the luckiest chap going."

Gordon was the first to extend his hand, and a careful observer might have noted an unusual gleam of genuine interest in eyes as a rule carefully schooled not to show any emotion whatever. "Lucky!" he exclaimed. "Well, I should say you were! You're a sharp one to steal a march on us like this. Why, that's the best news I've heard in a long time."

Vanulm and Mott-Smith in turn added their congratulations to his, and then Gordon touched the bell.

"John," he cried gaily, as the waiter appeared in answer, "will you kindly bring us the oldest, biggest and best magnum of champagne you've got in your cellar? We want to celebrate a great event."

Palmer raised a protesting hand. "Oh, I say, Gordon!" he exclaimed, his face flushing as he spoke, "thank you just as much, but please don't bother. I'm not drinking now. You know I really can't touch the stuff. I—"

Gordon cut him short. "There, there," he said good-humoredly, "I refuse to listen to any such talk as that. On any ordinary occasion I'd say you were perfectly right, but this is the one time in a man's life when a drink is really the only proper thing. It would hardly be fair to the lady, otherwise, Harry."

The appeal to Palmer's pride was successful. "Well," he assented half-doubt fully, "if you really think so, Gordon—perhaps this once—but I'm going to cut the whole thing out, you know," and Gordon's point, as usual, was gained.

Then, while they waited for John's reappearance, a slightly embarrassed silence fell upon them. Mott-Smith was thinking half enviously of a girl he himself knew, and of the difference between his income and Palmer's. Gordon, too, was thinking, not at random, but quickly, daringly and to the point. Vanulm began mechanically to figure up the bridge scores. Then he laughed. "'Unlucky at cards, Harry,'" he quoted. "You're sixty-eight dollars to the bad, I'm out forty-five, and Mott-Smith's plus thirteen. Our friend Gordon must be deucedly unlucky in love, for he's robbed us of an even century."

Gordon laughed again. "Poor consolation," he said. "I think we'll all agree that Harry's the real winner to-night." And then, as John filled the glasses, he added: "Here's to you both, my boy, and may the Goddess of Fortune bring you all the luck you deserve."

The glasses clinked, and were drained dry. Almost at once a subtle change came over Palmer's face. "That's great stuff!" he cried. "You were right, Gordon. I believe you always are. It wouldn't do not to celebrate the occasion. Lots of time afterwards, you know, and all that sort of thing. John, John—" and he tapped at the bell impatiently until the waiter again appeared, "John, your first bottle's all right. Now you want to get us another just like it, and then another just like that, and then you want to stand by for further orders—stand by for first aid to the injured, I mean—what the devil do I mean, anyway?"

The others laughed, but Gordon's laugh was too hearty to ring true, and the way in which he bent forward and slapped Palmer on the back savored of deliberate acting. "You'll be the death of me yet, old man," he cried. "I swear you're the brightest fellow in the whole club. You don't realize what a sense of humor you've got."

And then, as Palmer, glowing with the joy of just appreciation, went on to be more and more humorous still, John appeared with the second bottle, and later with the third; later still, long after Vanulm and Mott-Smith had gone home, at Gordon's suggestion he brought the fourth and fifth, and about two o'clock in the morning, as the young millionaire's unruly legs balked at the long flight of stairs which led to the sleeping rooms on the floor above, it was as "first aid to the injured," after all, that he was finally called upon to serve.

CHAPTER II

A LITTLE DINNER AT THE ALBEMARLE

Lieutenant Osborne, commander of the new submarine, Anhinga, wiry, alert, bronzed, had proved to be the most entertaining of companions, and the little dinner in his honor had turned out to be an entire success.

Osborne