He came in just as I had finished dressing--looking as if he had been spending the time since I had seen him last in trying to find that five and thirty thousand pounds. His eyes were bloodshot. His face was white and drawn. He was a vivid illustration of the night it must have been. Vouchsafing no greeting, sitting down without a word, leaning on the handle of his stick, he stared at nothing with his bloodshot eyes.
I opened the ball.
"Are you coming down with me to Torquay by the three o'clock?" Silence. "I suppose you haven't forgotten your engagement with Jardine?"
"I can't keep it. For a sufficient reason."
"What's that? Feel seedy? The run down will do you good. You'll feel as fit as a fiddler by the time you get to Cockington."
"That's not the reason."
"What is it then? I suppose you're not going to throw them over--they'll want your gun."
"The reason I'm not going is because I have not sufficient money with which to pay the fare."
I stared. I had not supposed the thing was so bad as that. Yet it was characteristic. In one of his moods he was just the man to play for his boots, and not miss them till he wanted to put them on.
"I suppose you're joking."