"You haven't beaten me yet, sir," he said.

"No," said Hill. "And I don't value--an easy victory."

There followed a tense silence while he resumed his play. Steadily his
score mounted, and it seemed to Dot that there was hostility in the very
atmosphere. She wondered what would happen if he scored the hundred
before his opponent had another chance. She hoped he would not do so,
and yet she did not want to see him beaten.

He did not, but he left off with only three points to make. Then Warden
began to score. Stroke after stroke he executed with flawless accuracy
and with scarcely a pause, moving to and fro about the table without
lifting his eyes from the balls. His play was swift and unswerving, his
score mounted rapidly.

Dot watched him spellbound, not breathing. Hill stood near her, also
closely watching, with brows slightly drawn. Suddenly something impelled
her to look beyond the man at the table, and in the shadow on the farther
side of the room she again saw Harley's face, grey, withered-looking,
with sunken eyes that glared forth wolfishly. He was glancing ceaselessly
from Hill to Warden and from Warden to Hill, and the malice of his glance
shocked her inexpressibly. She had never before seen murderous hate so
stamped upon any countenance.

Instinctively she shrank from the sight, and in that moment Warden's eyes
were lifted for a second from the table. Magnetically hers flashed to
meet them. It was instantaneous, inevitable as the sudden flare of
lightning across a dark sky.