im dubiously.

"What have you been up to?" he asked.

"Up to!" Jimmy echoed the phrase pettishly. "I haven't been up to
anything. You talk as if I were a blessed brat. One must do something
to amuse oneself. I'm fed-up--sick to death of this infernal life.
It's just a question of killing time from hour to hour. I loathe
getting up in the morning, I hate going to bed at night, I'm sick to
death of the club and the fools you meet there. I wish to God I could
end it once and for all."

"Humph! Sounds as if you want a tonic," said Sangster in his most
matter-of-fact way. He recognised a touch of hysteria in Jimmy's
voice, and in spite of everything he felt sorry for him.

"Give me a drink," said Jimmy presently. "That idiot, Costin, has kept
everything locked up all day. I'm as dry as blazes. Give me a drink,
there's a good chap."

Sangster filled a glass with soda water and brought it over to where
Jimmy sat huddled up in the big chair. He looked a pitiable enough
object--he wanted shaving, and he had not troubled to put on his
collar; his feet were thrust into an old pair of bedroom slippers. He
sipped the soda and pushed it away angrily.

"I don't want that damned muck," he said savagely.

"I know you don't, but it's all you're going to have. Look here,
Jimmy, don't be an ass! You're ill, old chap, or you will be if you go
on like this. Take my advice and hop off to bed, you'll feel a heap
better between the sheets. Can I do anything for you--anything----"

"Yes," said Jimmy sullenly. "You can--leave me to myself."

He held his hands to the fire and shivered; Sangster looked at him
silently for a moment, then he shrugged his shoulders and turned
towards the door. He was out on the landing when Jimmy called his name.

"Well?"

"Where the deuce are you going?" Jimmy demanded irritably. "Nice sort
of pal, you are, to go off and leave a chap when he's sick."

Sangster did not make the obvious reply; he came back, shutting the
door behind him. Jimmy was leaning back in his chair now; his face was
nearly as red as the dressing-gown he wore, but he shivered violently
from time to time. There was a little silence, then he opened his eyes
and smiled rather apologetically.

"Sorry to be so dull. I haven't slept for a week."

It would have been nearer the truth to say that he had hardly closed
his eyes since the night of Cynthia Farrow's death, but he knew that if
he said that Sangster would