“ ‘You’re new,’ he remarked, leaning against the counter. ‘What’s happened to the other fellow? Is he dead?’
“ ‘Probably,’ I returned. ‘What do you want?’
“ ‘Gin—double tot. What’s your name?’
“I told him, and he pondered the matter while he finished his drink.
“ ‘Well,’ he said at length, ‘I warned your predecessor, and I’ll warn you. Don’t fall foul of my manager down here. Name of Mainwaring—I do not think. Don’t give him advice about keeping off the drink, or he’ll kill you. He’s killing himself, but that’s his business. I’m tough—you look tough, but he’s got us beat to a frazzle. And take cover if he ever gets mixed up with any of the Dagos—the place isn’t healthy.’
“It was just at that moment that the door swung open and a tall, lean fellow lounged in. He’d got an eyeglass screwed into one eye, and a pair of perfectly-fitting polo boots with some immaculate white breeches encased his legs. His shirt was silk, his sun-helmet spotless; in fact, he looked like the typical English dude of fiction.
“ ‘My manager, Mainwaring,’ said McAndrew, by way of introduction.
“Mainwaring stared at me for a moment or two—then he shrugged his shoulders.
“ ‘You look sane; however, if you come here you can’t be. Double gin—and one for yourself.’
“He spoke with a faint, almost affected drawl, and as I poured out the drinks I watched him covertly. When he first came in I had thought him a young man; now I wasn’t so sure. It was his eyes that made one wonder as to his age—they were so utterly tired. If he was indeed drinking himself to death, there were no traces of it as yet on his face, and his hand as he lifted his glass was perfectly steady. But those eyes of his—I can see them now. The cynical bitterness, the concentrated weariness of all Hell was in them. And it’s not good for any man to look like that; certainly not a man of thirty-five, as I afterwards discovered his age to be.”