“No,” answered Crailey. “Are you?
“No. I'm going to work.”
“You've been all up night, too, haven't you?” Crailey put his hand on the other's shoulder. “Were you hunting for me?”
“No; not last night.”
Crailey lurched suddenly, and Tom caught him about the waist to steady him.
“Sweethearting, tippling, vingt-et-un, or poker, eh, Tom?” he shouted, thickly, with a wild laugh. “Ha, ha, old smug-face, up to my bad tricks at last!” But, recovering himself immediately, he pushed the other off at arm's length, and slapped himself smartly on the brow. “Never mind; all right, all right—only a bad wave, now and then. A walk will make me more a man than ever.”
“You'd much better go to bed, Crailey.”
“I can't. I'm going to change my clothes and go out.”
“Why?”
Crailey did not answer, but at that moment the Catholic church-bell, summoning the faithful to mass, pealed loudly on the morning air; and the steady glance of Tom Vanrevel rested upon the reckless eyes of the man beside him as they listened together to its insistent call. Tom said, gently, almost timidly: