I told him his nerves were talking, and talking rot, and I gave him the sleeping-draft and sent him to bed.
It was not until after luncheon the next day when he made his first appearance on deck that I again saw my patient. He was once more a healthy picture of a young Englishman of leisure; keen, smart, and fit; ready for any exercise or sport. The particular sport at which he was so expert I asked him to avoid.
“Can't be done!” he assured me. “I'm the loser, and we dock to-morrow morning. So tonight I've got to make my killing.”
It was the others who made the killing.
I came into the smoking-room about nine o'clock. Talbot alone was seated. The others were on their feet, and behind them in a wider semicircle were passengers, the smoking-room stewards and the ship's purser.
Talbot sat with his back against the bulkhead, his hands in the pockets of his dinner coat; from the corner of his mouth his long cigarette-holder was cocked at an impudent angle. There was a tumult of angry voices, and the eyes of all were turned upon him. Outwardly at least he met them with complete indifference. The voice of one of my countrymen, a noisy pest named Smedburg, was raised in excited accusation.
“When the ship's surgeon first met you,” he cried, “you called yourself Lord Ridley.”
“I'll call myself anything I jolly well like,” returned Talbot. “If I choose to dodge reporters, that's my pidgin. I don't have to give my name to every meddling busybody that—”
“You'll give it to the police, all right,” chortled Mr. Smedburg. In the confident, bullying tones of the man who knows the crowd is with him, he shouted: “And in the meantime you'll keep out of this smoking-room!”
The chorus of assent was unanimous. It could not be disregarded. Talbot rose and with fastidious concern brushed the cigarette ashes from his sleeve. As he moved toward the door he called back: “Only too delighted to keep out. The crowd in this room makes a gentleman feel lonely.”