"Don't want any food," he growled. "Give me a drink."
He was induced to accompany his friends into the dining-room. The smell of food provoked his appetite and he ordered an elaborate meal. When it came he could not eat it. But two or three glasses of champagne revived him temporarily, long enough for him to note the chilling contempt with which the other diners in the room regarded him. After indulging in a long volley of profanity, his mood underwent another change. He grew morose, introspective, self-pitying.
"Nobody cares for me!" he whined. "They've all turned against me. But there's one that would have stood by me—she's dead!"
His memory of her grew suddenly tender and tears filled his bleary eyes.
"She was all right—a good girl but stubborn," he proceeded in a maudlin way. "Got the marriage craze! Wanted me to let my wife get a divorce and marry her! She didn't want to live dishonored all her life. And she killed herself—poor Julia!"
As the name dropped from his lips, Collins bolted upright in his chair.
"I'm going to the flat," he said. "That's where I was happy."
"Wait and we'll go with you," suggested Cooper on a nudge from the detective.
"All right," assented Collins. "You're the only friend I've got left."
They hurried through the rest of the meal, then descended to the lobby of the club. While Cooper and Collins waited for their hats and coats, Fanwell darted into the telephone booth and called up Police Headquarters.