He sauntered out and on into the body of the club, exchanging with friends a few words here, a smiling handclasp there; and presently he seated himself near a window.
For a while he rested his chin on his clenched hand, staring into space, until a waiter arrived with his order.
He signed the check, drained his glass, and leaned forward again with both elbows on his knees, twirling his silver-headed stick between nervous hands.
“After all,” he said under his breath, “it’s too late, now.... I’m going to see this thing through.”
As he rose to go he caught sight of Jim Shotwell, seated alone by another window and attempting to read an evening paper by the foggy light from outside. He walked over to him, fastening his overcoat on the way. Jim laid aside his paper and gave him a dull glance.
“How are things with you?” inquired Estridge, carelessly.
“All right. Are you walking up town?”
“No.”