I went in search of Talbot; partly because I knew he was on the verge of a collapse, partly, as I frankly admitted to myself, because I was sorry the young man had come to grief.  I searched the snow-swept decks, and then, after threading my way through faintly lit tunnels, I knocked at his cabin.  The sound of his voice gave me a distinct feeling of relief.  But he would not admit me.  Through the closed door he declared he was “all right,” wanted no medical advice, and asked only to resume the sleep he claimed I had broken.  I left him, not without uneasiness, and the next morning the sight of him still in the flesh was a genuine thrill.  I found him walking the deck carrying himself nonchalantly and trying to appear unconscious of the glances—­amused, contemptuous, hostile—­that were turned toward him.  He would have passed me without speaking, but I took his arm and led him to the rail.  We had long passed quarantine and a convoy of tugs were butting us into the dock.

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

“Doesn’t depend on me,” he said.  “Depends on Smedburg.  He’s a busy little body!”

The boy wanted me to think him unconcerned, but beneath the flippancy I saw the nerves jerking.  Then quite simply he began to tell me.  He spoke in a low, even monotone, dispassionately, as though for him the incident no longer was of interest.

“They were watching me,” he said.  “But I knew they were, and besides, no matter how close they watched I could have done what they said I did and they’d never have seen it.  But I didn’t.”

My scepticism must have been obvious, for he shook his head.

“I didn’t!” he repeated stubbornly.  “I didn’t have to!  I was playing in luck—­wonderful luck—­sheer, dumb luck.  I couldn’t help winning.  But because I was winning and because they were watching, I was careful not to win on my own deal.  I laid down, or played to lose.  It was the cards they gave me I won with.  And when they jumped me I told ’em that.  I could have proved it if they’d listened.  But they were all up in the air, shouting and spitting at me.  They believed what they wanted to believe; they didn’t want the facts.”

It may have been credulous of me, but I felt the boy was telling the truth, and I was deeply sorry he had not stuck to it.  So, rather harshly, I said: 

“They didn’t want you to tell them you were a brother to Adolph Meyer, either.  Why did you think you could get away with anything like that?”

Talbot did not answer.

“Why?” I insisted.

The boy laughed impudently.

“How the devil was I to know he hadn’t a brother?” he protested.  “It was a good name, and he’s a Jew, and two of the six who were in the game are Jews.  You know how they stick together.  I thought they might stick by me.”

“But you,” I retorted impatiently, “are not a Jew!”

“I am not,” said Talbot, “but I’ve often said I was.  It’s helped—­lots of times.  If I’d told you my name was Cohen, or Selmsky, or Meyer, instead of Craig Talbot, you’d have thought I was a Jew.”  He smiled and turned his face toward me.  As though furnishing a description for the police, he began to enumerate: