When he had finished his figuring he fished out a check-book, detached a
tiny gold fountain-pen from the bunch of seals and knick-knacks on his
watch-chain, and, filling in the checks, passed them over without
comment.
Fane rose, stretching his long neck, gazed about through his spectacles,
like a benevolent saurian, and finally fixed his mild, protruding eyes
upon Orchil.
"There'll be a small game at the Fountain Club," he said, with a grin
which creased his cheeks until his retreating chin almost disappeared
under the thick lower lip.
Orchil twiddled his long, crinkly, pointed moustache and glanced
interrogatively at Harmon; then he yawned, stretched his arms, and rose,
pocketing the check, which Ruthven passed to him, with a careless nod of
thanks.
As they filed out of the card-room into the dim passageway, Orchil
leading, a tall, shadowy figure in evening dress stepped back from the
door of the card-room against the wall to give them right of way, and
Orchil, peering at him without recognition in the dull light, bowed
suavely as he passed, as did Fane, craning his curved neck, and Harmon
also, who followed in his wake.
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