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The need of my keeping his head straight that he might the easier rob our fellow-passengers raised a pretty question of ethics. I meanly dodged it. I told him professional etiquette required I should leave him to the ship’s surgeon.

“But I don’t know HIM,” he protested.

Mindful of the use he had made of my name, I objected strenuously:

“Well, you certainly don’t know me.”

My resentment obviously puzzled him.

“I know who you ARE,” he returned. “You and I–” With a deprecatory gesture, as though good taste forbade him saying who we were, he stopped. “But the ship’s surgeon!” he protested, “he’s an awful bounder! Besides,” he added quite simply, “he’s watching me.”

“As a doctor,” I asked, “or watching you play cards?”

“Play cards,” the young man answered. “I’m afraid he was ship’s surgeon on the P. & O. I came home on. There was trouble that voyage, and I fancy he remembers me.”

His confidences were becoming a nuisance.

“But you mustn’t tell me that,” I protested. “I can’t have you making trouble on this ship, too. How do you know I won’t go straight from here to the captain?”

As though the suggestion greatly entertained him, he laughed.

He made a mock obeisance.

“I claim the seal of your profession,” he said. “Nonsense,” I retorted. “It’s a professional secret that your nerves are out of hand, but that you are a card-sharp is NOT. Don’t mix me up with a priest.”

For a moment Talbot, as though fearing he had gone too far, looked at me sharply; he bit his lower lip and frowned.

“I got to make expenses,” he muttered. “And, besides, all card games are games of chance, and a card-sharp is one of the chances. Anyway,” he repeated, as though disposing of all argument, “I got to make expenses.”

After dinner, when I came to the smoking-room, the poker party sat waiting, and one of them asked if I knew where they could find “my friend.” I should have said then that Talbot was a steamer acquaintance only; but I hate a row, and I let the chance pass.

“We want to give him his revenge,” one of them volunteered.

“He’s losing, then?” I asked.

The man chuckled complacently.

“The only loser,” he said.

“I wouldn’t worry,” I advised. “He’ll come for his revenge.”

That night after I had turned in he knocked at my door. I switched on the lights and saw him standing at the foot of my berth. I saw also that with difficulty he was holding himself in hand.

“I’m scared,” he stammered, “scared!”

I wrote out a requisition on the surgeon for a sleeping-potion and sent it to him by the steward, giving the man to understand I wanted it for myself. 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. 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.”