“No, you don’t,” George said miserably. “You think it is most odd, and so it is. What is more, this racket is getting too much for me. I can’t keep it up much longer.”
As he spoke his face relaxed, and I saw a horror in his eyes that startled me. It is not often that one sees naked fear in a man’s face, but I saw it that night and it wasn’t a pleasant experience.
“I don’t think there is a man alive who could,” I said. “Why don’t you drop it right away? After all, you have enough fame now. You’ve done quite enough.”
“No, I can’t do that. I can’t expect you to understand. I’ve got to go until I’m married—then perhaps—”
I said: “Let’s go to the bar and have a brandy. It’ll do you good.”
“I daren’t touch it,” George said. “If I once start again, I’m sunk.” He ran his fingers through his thick hair. “My God! I had a close shave once. It was when Myra came to see me race for the first time. I wanted to put on a good show, but I felt edgy and nervous. So I hit the bottle. That cured me. I took a bend at over a hundred miles an hour. Everyone thought it was marvellous driving, and Myra got a tremendous kick out of it, but I knew how close I had been to a smash-up. I found I was losing my sense of judgment, so I gave up the booze. I tell you, sometimes I get pretty scared.”
I began to get seriously worried. It was quite obvious to me that he was making a tremendous effort to seem casual, but every now and then I would get a glimpse of an expression in his eyes that told me he was in a very bad shape. There was no doubt that he was terrified, almost as pathetically as a child awakening from some evil nightmare.
I asked him when he was getting married.
“Early next month. I have two more races, and then I’m going to Key West for my honeymoon. That’s really what I want to speak to you about. I want you to come along for some fishing.”
I stared at him. “My dear fellow. Not on your honeymoon. Why, damn it—”