CHATBOT: To those observing our game of poker, Mr. Montague appeared to be a man who would lay anything at the foot of fortune. He was always ready to laugh and shrug the matter off. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with an air of something vaguely unfathomable in the depths of his blue eyes. On this particular occasion, he exhibited a strong interest in the game, a kind of teasing alertness which nevertheless suited his natural disposition. His opponents regarded him with feelings ranging from baffled wonder to envious respect. They were all in varying moods, the result of the cards that fortune had elected to place in their hands. Algernon Cuthbert Craddock, Montague's right hand opponent, had led a somewhat nebulous career. An all-or-nothing sort of fellow, he varied from being the life and soul of the party to passing menacing scowls at strangers in a bar over the consumption of a single whisky. Three stolid, heavily-jowled businessmen completed the quintette of players, the most persistent of whom was a bald-headed stout individual by the name of George Melrose. "I suppose," said Montague loftily, "that one must keep one's eye sharply peeled over these little affairs nowadays. One hears of such strange doings." "I don't see," snapped Craddock, "that you have any risk at this moment." "No," agreed Montague. "I dare say the straits haven't yet been dealt. But one cannot be too careful. You gentlemen, of course, are above suspicion; and pleasure is pleasure, but business is business. I understand there is an unpleasant reptile in the vicinity whose initials might easily be confused with mine." The game continued with a studious quietude, only interrupted by the occasional chink of the chips as bets were thrown into the centre. The very expectation of what might be was oppressive--one felt that some sudden, unsurmountable and terrifying climax must soon emerge from the steadfast veneer of calm that pervaded the room. It is noteworthy that the private thoughts of the four people who were about to tread in Montague's wake were precisely similar in character. Melrose, who had the air of permanent dissatisfaction with life and who viewed even his winnings as a natural tribute to his existence, was thinking, "I wonder how he does it; he's got nothing again." Craddock, his attention riveted on the cards in his hand, reflected doubtfully. "These fellows are such fools. Montaigne won't find it so easy as all that." Montague, in the centre, was thinking: "Will they suspec...

CHATBOT: Chapter 1: The Parlour Game The green baize table was illuminated by a single shaded light suspended above it. Eight men ranged around it, each with his pile of chips, and each with his varied expression of anticipation, reflection, excitement, or greed. Before each one lay a small card representing the amount of his losses or gains. They were playing poker, that is to say, poker according to the singular interpretation of the game adopted by Sir William Faulkner, their host at Greenway House. Several minor MPs and country gentlemen were present, and indeed Sir William strongly advocated the cause of the Conservatives in the locality. His views, however, were by no means of a rigid nature; in fact it was generally said in the neighbourhood that if the tide of political feeling had set the other way, Sir William would have developed an equally strong enthusiasm for the Liberals. But apart from politics, Lady Faulkner was a distant relative of the wife of the great Richard Fairfax, the famous QC, who was Labour MP for an industrial town up in the North. "I don't believe you follow the cards at all, Major Foster," said Sir William, leaning back and lighting a gold-tipped cigarette as his wife entered the room. "You're too much wrapped up in these mysterious army manoeuvres." "You're wrong there," observed Major Foster, with a soldierly frankness. "It's the one thing I do take a vivid interest in. Of course, I don't regard it in the light of an exalted form of mental effort like you, Sir William, or our good friend, Eustace Merrowby, here. No offence meant, as you know." Sir William laughed genially, as everyone did at Major Foster's sallies, and there was something refreshing in his outbursts in contrast to the heavy conversation of some of the others. "You mustn't take it personally if you should lose," said Sir William. "I must confess I'm a lucky player, invariably so." "I can't say I've observed it on this particular occasion," remarked Leslie Garth, Member for Awyth, in a dry tone. "I seem to be the one who's making the running at present." "Circumstances over which I have no control," said Sir William, stretching out his hand, and rubbing one finger significantly across his other hand. "I win," he added quietly as he turned up his cards. Eustace Merrowby leaned forward, his somewhat more intelligent face bent in the effort of concentration. He laid down his cards with a nonchalant gesture that suggested something of uncertainty. But even as he did so, a...