The Sundial by Fred M. White

Mrs. Bromley-Martin's rooms were filled as usual, for she was giving one of those bridge parties of which she and her set never seemed to tire. It seemed strange that they had not become weary of their pursuit. But, then, the element of gambling entered largely into their calculations, and of this they never tired. It was a perfect night out of doors. The long French windows leading to the lawn were invitingly open. But probably few of the guests appreciated the beauty of the night. The rooms were hot and stuffy, and there was a cackle of conversation and high-pitched chatter without which no smart function is complete. There were a dozen tables going, and from time to time those whose hands lay on the table were gathered together round the fireplace discussing choice morsels of scandal. The hostess herself, resplendent in blue and silver, was being listened to with rapt attention, for she had something especially fresh and piquant which she was relating to the motley throng around her. Her shrill voice rang through the room.

"I assure you, it is perfectly true," she said. "I saw her myself at the station. She came back this afternoon and went straight to the _Queen's Hotel_."