But passing between the gold-coloured curtains he saw that which checked his advance, and banished all thought of relaxation from his brain.
Harry Denvil—whose buoyancy and simplicity of heart had led Desmond to christen him the Boy—sat alone at Evelyn's bureau, his head between his hands, despair in every line of his figure.
Desmond regarded him thoughtfully, marvelling that the sounds of his own arrival should have passed unheard. Then he went forward, and laid his hand on the Boy's shoulder.
"Harry! I don't seem to recognise you in that attitude. Anything seriously wrong?"
Denvil started, and revealed a face of dogged dejection.
"You here?" he said listlessly. "Never heard you come in."
"That's obvious. But—about yourself?"
The Boy choked down a sigh.
"Why the deuce should I bore you with myself, when you're hot and tired? I've been a confounded fool; if not worse, and the devil's in the luck wherever I turn."