"I didn't intend to come at all." He seated himself in the chair indicated. "But I couldn't keep away."
"You look about all in."
"I didn't sleep."
Cleland got up, walked to the ice-box, knocked off a bit of ice with a tack-hammer, and leisurely constructed a highball.
"Here you are, Harry. I can't; I'm working. There are cigars by your elbow, cigarettes, too."
Belter looked vacantly at the iced bracer, then he dropped both elbows on the edge of the desk and took, his drawn face between his hands.
Cleland began to pace the studio. Presently he halted by Belter's chair.
"Hell," he said pleasantly, "cut out the tragedy! It's good enough for my novel, where the poor devils I write about have to do what I make 'em. But you and I are free to do what we choose."
"Yes.... And I've done it.... I've done what I chose. Where has it landed me, Cleland?"
He looked at the frosty glass, pushed it away from him: