The Long Portage by Harold Bindloss

The little room in Marple's house, where the Crestwicks were staying, was hot and partly filled with cigar smoke which drifted in filmy streaks athwart the light of the green-shaded hanging-lamp. Lisle sat beneath the lamp, studying the cards in his hand, until he leaned back in his chair and flung a glance about the table. There were no counters on it, but Gladwyne had just noted something in a little book and was waiting with a languid smile upon his handsome face. Next to him sat Batley, looking thoughtful; and Crestwick sat opposite Lisle, eager and unhealthily flushed. His forehead showed damp in the lamplight and there was an unpleasant glitter in his eyes. It was close on to midnight and luck had gone hard against him during the past hour, half of which Lisle had spent in his company. This had cost Lisle more money than he was willing to part with.

"It's getting late," he said with a yawn. "After this hand, I'll drop out; I dare say one of the other two will take my place. Crestwick, I believe your sister and Miss Leslie will be waiting. You're going with them, aren't you?"