The Wager

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It was only a few minutes past eleven at night, usually the height of the evening at the exclusive Quinleven Club on East 63rd Street in Manhattan, but the slashing rain drumming in sheets in the street outside, combined with the normal lesser-activity-anyway of a Monday in midsummer, had left the club quite deserted. In the cloakroom only a few dripping umbrellas marred the almost military precision of the rows of ready hooks, testifying to the fortitude of their owners, while the kitchen had long since given up hope of late customers and had locked its doors. In the reading room several members restlessly rustled newspapers, waiting for the deluge to end, while the lone attendant stood at a window staring morosely out at the creeping cars; in the billiard room a member aimlessly batted balls around, unable to find anyone for a game. But it was in the cardroom, with its empty bar and bored bartender polishing glasses and trading idle gossip with an equally bored waiter, that the difference from normal evenings was most easily noted. The oasis of darkened tables made the few cones of light illuminating the scattered tables in use stand out starkly.

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