ridor,
traversing it without noticing which direction he took until, awaking
from abstraction, he found himself at the head of a flight of steps and
saw the portico of the railroad station below him and the signal lamps,
green and red and white, burning between the glistening rails.

Without much caring where he went, but not desiring to retrace his steps
over half a mile or so of carpet, he went out into the open air and
along the picket fence toward the lake front.

As he came to the track crossing he glanced across at the Beach Club
where lights sparkled discreetly amid a tropical thicket and flowers
lay in pale carpets under the stars.

Portlaw had sent him a member's card; he took it out now and scanned it
with faint curiosity. His name was written on the round-cornered brown
card signed by a "vice-president" and a "secretary," under the engraved
notice: "To be shown when requested."

But when he ascended the winding walk among the palms and orange
blossoms, this "suicide's tag," as Malcourt called it, was not demanded
of him at the door.

The restaurant seemed to be gay and rather noisy, the women vivacious,
sometimes beautiful, and often respectable. A reek of cigarette smoke,
wine, and orange blossoms hung about the corridors; the tiny glittering
rotunda with its gaming-tables in a circle was thronged.

He watched them lose and win and lose again. Under the soft tumult of
voices the cool tones of the house attaches sounded monotonously, the
ball rattled, the wheels spun. But curiosity had already died out within
him; gain, loss, chance, Fate--and the tense white concentration of the
man beside him no longer interested him; nor did a sweet-faced young
girl in the corridor who looked a second too long at him; nor the
handsome over-flushed youth who was with her and who cried out in loud
recognition: "Gad, Hamil; why didn't you tell me you were coming?
There's somebody here who wants to meet you, but Portlaw's got
her--somewhere. You'll take supper with us anyway! We'll find you a fair
impenitent."

Hamil stared at him coolly. He was on no such terms with Malcourt, drunk
or sober. But everybody was Malcourt's friend just then, and he went on
recklessly:

"You've got to stay; hasn't he, Dolly?--Oh, I forgot--Miss Wilming, Mr.
Hamil, who's doing the new park, you know. All kinds of genius buzzes in
his head--roulette wheels buzz in mine. Hamil, you remember Miss Wilming
in the 'Motor Girl.' She was one of t