As if at his word Llewellyn came up the stairs. His countenance was blacker than usual, his eyes more than half closed under their clouds of brows. His shoulders drooped, and he thumped his stick on the floor of the club as he came toward us. I felt certain that he detected something in the air—a sudden cessation of talk or a strained attitude on our part. He drooped heavily into a chair, and banged his stick on his chair-leg.
“Joseph,” he called, “give me a Doctor Funk. Quick! No, make it straight absinthe.”
Our own drinks were coming by now, and as the steward stirred about, Llewellyn for the first time saw me.
“Hello! Where did you come from? I thought you had gone back to the States.”
“I’ve been past the isthmus,” I replied, “and I haven’t seen a soul or heard a word in that time. What’s this terrible thing about young David?”
Llewellyn’s arm jerked convulsively toward his body and knocked his glass from the table.
“Joseph, for God’s sake, bring me a drink! Bring me a double absinthe!”
Joseph fetched the drink hurriedly, and stopped to pick up the broken glass.
“Mon dieu!” snapped Llewellyn, “you can do that afterward. Clear out!”
Then he turned to me, and his eyes contracted into mere black gleams as he asked: