The White Glove by Fred M. White — Read

Coolly, as if he had been a favored guest, Clifford strolled up the wide marble steps, with their covering of crimson cloth, and signified to a footman to take his coat and hat. There were scores of people passing up and down the steps--people of every condition of life. The Rabys were quite new as yet, and had not succeeded in throwing off the old set before they were well on with the new. But that would come in time. Levi Raby was immensely rich. He had made his money in some mysterious way in South Africa during the war. He entertained lavishly, and society asked nothing further at his hands.

There was no doubts as to the evidence of wealth here. The flowers and the fittings of the house must have cost a fortune in themselves. The magnificent rooms were filled now. The sound of the band came from somewhere, but nobody noticed the music. The refreshment rooms were crowded. There was a constant popping of champagne corks, as if the wine were being opened for the mere sake of lavish display. Beyond were a series of rooms devoted to bridge and the other gambling games, and Clifford noted that these were crowded. It was a kind of private Monte Carlo under the noses of the London police.