“We must talk it over. Sit down—get off that table; you’re making a perfect hash of my papers—and let’s talk it over. You won’t go out tonight.”
“Yes, I shall. I shall go down to the club.”
“No, no, keep away from the club tonight, Jack.”
“What are you afraid of? Do you think I shall want to gamble? I’ve no money to lose.”
“That’s the very reason you’ll want to play. Do keep at home tonight.”
“I couldn’t do it, old man,” he said. “I’m on wires—I’m all on fire. If I sat here much longer, I should get up suddenly, murder you, and sack the place. The Savage has got his paint on, and is on the trail.”
“Don’t be a fool, Jack. You are hot and upset. Keep away from the club tonight. Well, well—let the ecarte alone, at any rate.”
“All right, I’ll promise you that. I won’t touch a card tonight. Ecarte! I couldn’t play beggar-my-neighbor tonight! Len, I wish you were a bigger man; I’d get up a row, and have a turn-to with you. Sit down here! I couldn’t do it. I want to be doing something—something desperate. You can sit here and dream over your complaint; I can’t—I should go mad! Don’t sit up for me.”
Leonard looked after him as he disappeared into one of the two bedrooms which adjoined the common sitting-room, and, with a shake of his head, muttered, “Poor Jack!” and returned to his work.
Jack took a cold bath, dressed himself, and merely pausing to shout a good-night, as he passed down the stairs, went into the street, and jumped into a hansom, telling the man to drive to the Hawks’ Club.