Merton paused and drained his glass.
“Lady Sylvia’s wedding?” I asked, unnecessarily, and he nodded.
“So the first part of the riddle was solved,” he continued, quietly. “And when two days passed by without a sign of Mainwaring, I began to be afraid that he had solved his own riddle in his own way. But he hadn’t; he came into the bar at ten o’clock at night, and leaned up against the counter in his usual way.
“ ‘What have you been doing with yourself?’ I said, lightly.
“ ‘I’ve been trying to get drunk,’ he answered slowly, letting one of his hands fall on my arm with a grip like steel. ‘And, dear God! I can’t.’
“It doesn’t sound much—told like this in the smoking-room of a London club. But though I’ve seen and heard many things in my life that have impressed me—horrible, dreadful things that I shall never forget—the moment of all others that is most indelibly stamped on my brain is that moment when, leaning across the bar, I looked into the depths of the soul of the man who called himself Jimmy Mainwaring—the man who could not get drunk.”
Once again he paused, and this time I did not interrupt him. He was back in that steaming night, with the smell of stale spirits in his nostrils and the sight of strange things in his eyes. And I felt that I, too, could visualise that tall, immaculate Englishman leaning against the counter—the man who was beyond caring.
“But I must get on with it,” continued Merton, after a while. “The club will be filling up soon and I’ve only got the finish to tell you now. And by one of those extraordinary coincidences which happen far more frequently in life than people will allow, the finish proved a worthy one.
“It was about two days later. I was in the bar polishing the glasses when the door swung open and two men came in. They were obviously English, and both of them were dressed as if they were going to a garden-party.
“ ‘Thank heavens! Tommy, here’s a bar, at any rate,’ said one of them. ‘I say, barman, what have you got?’