A little later, as he watched the bookseller calculating with exquisite nicety the “bias” of his particular bowl, he was conscious of a desire not to encounter again for some while the expression of those deep-sunken eyes.

“What does that look of his make me think of?” he wondered, as he nodded to the other players and their absorbed spectators. And it seemed to him that he recalled a sombre lightship that he had seen once in Portland harbour, which every now and then emitted a long, thin stream of ghastly, livid illumination from the midst of waters desolate and disturbed.

There had apparently been time, while Wolf was having his tea, for Roger Monk to defeat Mr. Torp; for that champion, still in his shirtsleeves, and extremely hot, was arguing in a plaintive voice with Mr. Valley as to what he might have done and didn’t do.