Uninvited, Talbot had seated himself on the sofa. His eyes were
closed, and as though he were cold he was shivering and hugging himself
in his arms.
"Have you been drinking?" I asked.
In surprise he opened his eyes.
"_I_ can't drink," he answered simply. "It's nerves and worry. I'm
tired."
He relaxed against the cushions; his arms fell heavily at his sides; the
fingers lay open.
"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.
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