“Because I need the change,” he said almost brusquely.
“Are you tired—of your friends?” she asked, not lifting her eyes.
“I have so few friends,” said Jimmy bitterly. “People here who are worth knowing know me.”
“What do they know?” she asked, and looked at him.
“They know my life,” he said doggedly, “from the day I was sent down from Oxford to the day I succeeded to my uncle’s title and estates. They know I have been all over the world picking up strange acquaintances. They know I was one of the”—he hesitated for a word—“gang that robbed Rahbat Pasha’s bank; that I held a big share in Reale’s ventures—a share he robbed me of, but let that pass; that my life has been consistently employed in evading the law.”
“For whose benefit?” she asked.
“God knows,” he said wearily, “not for mine. I have never felt the need of money, my uncle saw to that. I should never have seen Reale again but for a desire to get justice. If you think I have robbed for gain, you are mistaken. I have robbed for the game’s sake, for the excitement of it, for the constant fight of wits against men as keen as myself. Men like Angel made me a thief.”
“And now——?” she asked.
“And now,” he said, straightening himself up, “I am done with the old life. I am sick and sorry—and finished.”
“And is this African trip part of your scheme of penitence?” she asked. “Or are you going away because you want to forget——”