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...