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Coffee and cigars were served.

“Both black and strong,” said Ashton-Kirk, as he tested one after the other.

“The coffee, sir, as Mr. Scanlon knows, is made after my own recipe,” stated the landlord. “I’d not recommend it to one of my invalid guests, sir, nor to a well one as a regular tipple. But it has the quality and the touch, if you know what I mean.”

“White is to move and win,” stated the cramped-looking man. He rubbed one side of his nose with a hand that shook, and there was complaint in the gaze with which he fixed the pieces. “But I can’t see how it’s going to do it.”

“White is to move, and win in four other moves,” said the drawn-looking man, coughing into the handkerchief.

“Which makes it all the more difficult,” said the other. His palsied hand fumbled purposelessly with the pieces; and the look of complaint deepened. The man with the handkerchief coughed once more, and looked mildly triumphant.

“They seem to be constantly engaged in these mad diversions,” said Scanlon, his eyes upon the two. “At times, when I’ve been here, I’ve seen the excitement rise to that degree that I’ve considered calling out the fire department.”