Until then we had played without any serious hope, but now the idea of breaking Czentovic’s cold arrogance quickened all our pulses. Our new friend had already indicated the next move, and we were ready to summon Czentovic—my fingers trembled as I struck the glass with the spoon. And now came our first triumph. Czentovic, who until then had always played on his feet, hesitated, hesitated, and finally sat down. He sat down slowly and ponderously; but with this movement alone the former de haut en bas inequality between us had been abolished. We had brought him down to our level, at least in a physical sense. He thought a long time, his eyes fixed on the board and downcast so that his pupils were hardly visible under the shadowed lids, and as he did his mouth gradually fell open, giving his round face a somewhat simple-minded appearance. Czentovic meditated intensely for some minutes, then made his move and rose. And already our friend was whispering:

“He’s stalling! Good thinking! But pay no attention! Force an exchange, an exchange at all costs, then we can draw, and not even God can help him.”

McConnor did as he was told. The next few moves were an incomprehensible give-and-take between the two antagonists (the rest of us had long since become mere supernumeraries). Some seven moves later, Czentovic looked up after long thought and said, “Draw.”

For a moment there was complete silence. You could suddenly hear the murmur of the waves, the jazz from the radio in the lounge, every footstep from the promenade deck, and the faint, delicate whistling of the wind through the cracks in the windows. Nobody breathed, it had happened too suddenly, and all of us were still almost in a state of shock after this improbable occurrence—this stranger had imposed his will on the world champion in a game that was half lost. McConnor leaned back suddenly, and the breath he had been holding escaped from his lips with a delighted “Ah!” I then observed Czentovic. During the last few moves it seemed to me that he had become paler. But he had no difficulty in maintaining his self-possession. He kept up a serene front and merely asked in the most unconcerned way, as he smoothly pushed the pieces off the board:

“Do the gentlemen wish a third game?”

He asked the question in a purely professional, businesslike manner. But this was the remarkable thing: instead of looking at McConnor, he had sharply and directly raised his eyes to our benefactor. During the last moves he must have recognized his real, his true opponent just as a horse knows a new, better rider by the way he takes the saddle. Involuntarily we followed his gaze, looking eagerly at the stranger. But before he had a chance to consider, much less respond, McConnor, bursting with pride and excitement, had called out triumphantly:

“Of course! But now you have to play Czentovic by yourself! Just you against Czentovic!”

But now something unforeseen happened. The stranger, who rather oddly was still staring intently at the empty chessboard, gave a start, feeling all eyes upon him and hearing himself addressed with such enthusiasm. He looked confused.

“Impossible, gentlemen,” he stammered, visibly disconcerted. “It’s completely out of the question … You shouldn’t even consider me … It’s been twenty, no, twenty-five years since I sat down at a chessboard … and only now do I see my impertinence in meddling in your game without being asked … Please excuse me for being so presumptuous … I certainly won’t bother you again.” And before we could recover from our surprise, he had already walked away and left the room.

“But this is incredible!” boomed the temperamental McConnor, banging his fist on the table. “It can’t be twenty-five years since this man played chess! He was calculating every move, every response five, six moves ahead. Nobody can do that off the top of his head. That’s completely impossible—isn’t it?”

As he asked this last question McConnor had turned without thinking to Czentovic. But the world champion remained unflappable.

“I am unable to say. However, the gentleman’s game was somewhat surprising and interesting; that is why I deliberately gave him a chance.” Rising nonchalantly, he added in his professional manner:

“If the gentleman, or you gentlemen, should wish another game tomorrow, I shall be at your service from three o’clock on.”

We could not suppress a faint smile. As we all knew, Czentovic had certainly not magnanimously given our unknown benefactor a chance, and this remark was nothing more than a simple-minded excuse for his own failure.