“God,” he whispered, “how tired I am!”

In spite of his tan—­and certainly he had led the out-of-door life—­his face showed white.  For the moment he looked old, worn, finished.

“They’re crowdin’ me,” the boy whispered.  “They’re always crowdin’ me.”  His voice was querulous, uncomprehending, like that of a child complaining of something beyond his experience.  “I can’t remember when they haven’t been crowdin’ me.  Movin’ me on, you understand?  Always movin’ me on.  Moved me out of India, then Cairo, then they closed Paris, and now they’ve shut me out of London.  I opened a club there, very quiet, very exclusive, smart neighborhood, too—­a flat in Berkeley Street—­roulette and chemin de fer.  I think it was my valet sold me out; anyway, they came in and took us all to Bow Street.  So I’ve plunged on this.  It’s my last chance!”

“This trip?”

“No; my family in New York.  Haven’t seen ’em in ten years.  They paid me to live abroad.  I’m gambling on them; gambling on their takin’ me back.  I’m coming home as the Prodigal Son, tired of filling my belly with the husks that the swine do eat; reformed character, repentant and all that; want to follow the straight and narrow; and they’ll kill the fatted calf.”  He laughed sardonically.  “Like hell they will!  They’d rather see me killed.”

It seemed to me, if he wished his family to believe he were returning repentant, his course in the smoking-room would not help to reassure them.  I suggested as much.

“If you get into ‘trouble,’ as you call it,” I said, “and they send a wireless to the police to be at the wharf, your people would hardly—­”

“I know,” he interrupted; “but I got to chance that.  I got to make enough to go on with—­until I see my family.”

“If they won’t see you?” I asked.  “What then?”

He shrugged his shoulders and sighed lightly, almost with relief, as though for him the prospect held no terror.

“Then it’s ‘Good night, nurse,’” he said.  “And I won’t be a bother to anybody any more.”

I told him his nerves were talking, and talking rot, and I gave him the sleeping-draft and sent him to bed.

It was not until after luncheon the next day when he made his first appearance on deck that I again saw my patient.  He was once more a healthy picture of a young Englishman of leisure; keen, smart, and fit; ready for any exercise or sport.  The particular sport at which he was so expert I asked him to avoid.

“Can’t be done!” he assured me.  “I’m the loser, and we dock to-morrow morning.  So to-night I’ve got to make my killing.”

It was the others who made the killing.

I came into the smoking-room about nine o’clock.  Talbot alone was seated.  The others were on their feet, and behind them in a wider semicircle were passengers, the smoking-room stewards, and the ship’s purser.

Talbot sat with his back against the bulkhead, his hands in the pockets of his dinner coat; from the corner of his mouth his long cigarette-holder was cocked at an impudent angle.  There was a tumult of angry voices, and the eyes of all were turned upon him.  Outwardly at least he met them with complete indifference.  The voice of one of my countrymen, a noisy pest named Smedburg, was raised in excited accusation.