“I am anxious about our common friend, Charlie Preston,” Blenkiron said presently. “Have you seen him lately?”
“Not since Henley week,” Johnson replied. “What is the matter with him?”
“I am certain he has something on his mind; he appears to me to have changed enormously within the last week or so.”
“In what way?”
“All the ‘vim’ seems to have gone out of him. He seems to be always preoccupied, always thinking—thinking. Often when I speak to him he doesn’t answer; in fact I don’t believe he hears. He used not to be like that.”
“He is engaged to be married.”
“I know, but I am positive that isn’t the reason. If it is, heaven prevent my ever becoming engaged!” and Blenkiron smiled rather grimly.
“Then to what do you attribute it?”
“I don’t attribute it. There is nothing to which I can attribute it. But I tell you this in confidence, Johnson—if I heard that Charlie Preston had become another victim to the suicide epidemic I should not be surprised.”
“You don’t say so! He is one of the last men I should have thought capable of that. When could I see him, I wonder? I should like to have a talk with him, after what you say.”