CHAPTER III
He was wan and weary. Around his sombre eyes were chocolate-coloured hollows. His thick raven hair was disordered. He had lost heavily, and, bidding a curt good-bye to the others, he strode off. In a moment I had followed and overtaken him.
"Mr. Locasto."
He turned and gave me a stare from his brooding eyes. They were vacant as those of a dope-fiend, vacant with fatigue.
"Jack Locasto's my name," he answered carelessly.
I walked alongside him.
"Well, sir," I said, "my name's Meldrum, Athol Meldrum."
"Oh, I don't care what the devil your name is," he broke in petulantly. "Don't bother me just now. I'm tired."
"So am I," I said, "infernally tired; but it won't hurt you to listen to my name."