He stooped again to play, but in that moment something had gone out of
him. The stroke he attempted was an easy one; but he missed it
hopelessly.

He straightened himself up with a sharp gesture and looked at Hill. "I am
sorry," he said.

Hill said nothing whatever. Their scores were exactly even. With
machine-like precision he took his turn, utterly ignoring the grumbling
criticisms of his adversary's play that were being freely expressed
around the room. With the utmost steadiness he made his stroke, scoring
two points. Then there fell a tremendous silence. The choice of two
strokes now lay before him. One was to pocket his adversary's ball; the
other a long shot which required considerable skill. He chose the second
without hesitation, hung a moment or two, made his stroke--and failed.

A howl of delight went up from the watchers, their hot partisanship of
Warden amounting almost to open animosity against his opponent. In the
midst of the noise Hill, perfectly calm, contemptuously indifferent,
touched Warden again upon the shoulder, and spoke to him.

Warden said nothing in reply, but he went to his ball with a hint of
savagery, bent, and almost without aiming sent it at terrific speed up
the table. It struck first the red, then the white, pocketed the former,
and whizzed therefrom into the opposite pocket.

A yell of delight went up. It was a brilliant stroke of which any player
might have been proud. But Warden flung down his cue with a gesture of
disgust.