In surprise he opened his eyes.
"I can't drink," he answered simply. "It's nerves and worry. I'm tired."
He relaxed against the cushions; his arms fell heavily at his sides; the fingers lay open.
"God," he whispered, "how tired I am!"
In spite of his tan—and certainly he had led the out-of-door life—his face showed white. For the moment he looked old, worn, finished.
"They're crowdin' me," the boy whispered. "They're always crowdin' me." His voice was querulous, uncomprehending, like that of a child complaining of something beyond his experience. "I can't remember when they haven't been crowdin' me. Movin' me on, you understand? Always movin' me on. Moved me out of India, then Cairo, then they closed Paris, and now they've shut me out of London. I opened a club there, very quiet, very exclusive, smart neighborhood, too—a flat in Berkeley Street—roulette and chemin de fer. I think it was my valet sold me out; anyway, they came in and took us all to Bow Street. So I've plunged on this. It's my last chance!"
"This trip?"
"No; my family in New York. Haven't seen 'em in ten years. They paid me to live abroad. I'm gambling on them; gambling on their takin' me back. I'm coming home as the Prodigal Son, tired of filling my belly with the husks that the swine do eat; reformed character, repentant and all that; want to follow the straight and narrow; and they'll kill the fatted calf." He laughed sardonically. "Like hell they will! They'd rather see me killed."
It seemed to me, if he wished his family to believe he were returning repentant, his course in the smoking-room would not help to reassure them. I suggested as much.
"If you get into 'trouble,' as you call it," I said, "and they send a wireless to the police to be at the wharf, your people would hardly—"