But he was not to escape with the last word.
His prosecutor pointed his finger at him.
“And the next time you take the name of Adolph Meyer,” he shouted, “make sure first he hasn't a friend on board; some one to protect him from sharpers and swindlers—”
Talbot turned savagely and then shrugged his shoulders.
“Oh, go to the devil!” he called, and walked out into the night.
The purser was standing at my side and, catching my eye, shook his head.
“Bad business,” he exclaimed.
“What happened?” I asked.
“I'm told they caught him dealing from the wrong end of the pack,” he said. “I understand they suspected him from the first—seems our surgeon recognized him—and to-night they had outsiders watching him. The outsiders claim they saw him slip himself an ace from the bottom of the pack. It's a pity! He's a nice-looking lad.”
I asked what the excited Smedburg had meant by telling Talbot not to call himself Meyer.