Sophy's chief object now was to have a clear, plain talk with her husband. She knew how painful and trying to them both this interview would be, and longed to have it over. Later in the day, when Chesney was again asleep, she sent for Gaynor and asked him for the explanation that she had mentioned that morning. He told her that the habit had really begun with an attack of jungle fever, or rather had been taken up as an alleviation of the nervousness, dull aching, and violent headaches that had followed the fever. On the voyage back to England, the ship's doctor had given Chesney a hypodermic of morphia to quiet one of these brain headaches that had lasted for twenty-four hours. He gave it with the usual warnings that such drugs were never to be tampered with, never taken unless at the express command of a physician. But somehow Gaynor had felt uneasy, even then—had had a presentiment, as he might say, in fact. Mr. Chesney had looked so quiet and mocking at the doctor. He had said afterwards to Gaynor:

"Those doctor chaps are a class of fools all to themselves, Gaynor. They prescribe a bit of heaven—then order you to stay snug in hell." Mrs. Chesney would please kindly pardon his (Gaynor's) plain speaking. Those were the exact words that Mr. Chesney had used. When they reached London, Mr. Chesney had at once bought a fitted hypodermic-syringe—that is, a little case containing a syringe, needles, and tiny bottles of morphia, apo-morphia, strychnine, and cocaine. The cocaine he had used only during the past few months. At first he had put this case in Gaynor's charge—only demanding it when one of those violent headaches came on. This stage had lasted for about a year (the year of her marriage with him Sophy calculated rapidly). Then he began to ask for it more frequently. Several times Gaynor had respectfully withheld the drug, and these refusals Mr. Chesney had taken in good part—just at first. Then—Mrs. Chesney would please kindly pardon him for such plain speaking, Mrs. Chesney had asked him to keep nothing back—then he found, by accident, that Mr. Chesney had bought another hypodermic-syringe—which he concealed. He would get doses from Gaynor, and in between take others, the valet could only guess how often. Then—— Gaynor hesitated, glancing anxiously at Sophy.

"Don't be afraid to speak out," she said gently. "I must know everything if I am to be of help to him. Was it at that time that Mr. Chesney began to—to take so much wine and—spirits?"

"Yes, madam."

There was a dull, brownish red in the man's face. He suffered at having to put his unfortunate master's weakness into words—at hearing his master's wife speak with such sad plainness.

"Why was that, Gaynor? Do all—all people who use such drugs—do that—too?"

"I do not know, madam. But there always comes a time of great weakness with Mr. Chesney after the morphine. It is then it happens. And afterwards there is great nervousness. Another dose of morphia is the only thing that will quiet it. So it goes, madam. First one—then the other. It is very terrible to watch. One feels helpless. I have tried hard to prevent it—with all my might, I should say, madam."

"I am sure you have, Gaynor," she said warmly. She sat for some moments thinking, her eyes on her wedding ring which she turned round and round. Then she asked what instructions Dr. Carfew had given.

"He ordered small doses, madam. I am to give them at longer intervals each time—lessening the dose each time also. Sometimes I must substitute strychnine. He also ordered malted milk, and a nourishing diet—things easy to digest and fattening. He said that Mr. Chesney weighed less than he should by at least two stone. And there must be no spirit of any land given."

He stopped abruptly, flushing again.

"And the other—Doctor Hopkins—what did he say?"

Something that was almost a smile quivered under Gaynor's light eyelashes. His voice was very demure.

"He gave me several prescriptions for different occasions, madam."

"Did he leave any instructions about the quantity of—morphine?" She paled as she uttered the word, but she felt that she must use it. It would have to be used very often between this man and herself if they were to save Cecil. "About the amount that you were to give Mr. Chesney!"

Gaynor looked down as though ashamed for the little doctor.

"He said that nothing could be done just at present, madam. That I must keep the master comfortable. That he must be reasoned with when he was better, and spoken to very plain for his own good."

"I see," said Sophy wearily.

She thought again; then asked:

"When do you think that Mr. Chesney will be strong enough for me to talk with him? I mean to talk really with him—to—to let him know that—I know!"

"By this evening—about nine, I should say, madam."

Sophy gazed at him in astonishment.

"By this evening? But he is still so ill, Gaynor!"

"This isn't like other illnesses, madam. I have only to give him a large dose, and it will put him normal."

"But Doctor Carfew's orders?"

The man looked sadly and wisely at her.

"He would not object, I'm sure, madam, seeing the object that is in view."

"And it will not injure him?"

"Oh, no, madam! At the worst, it will only delay things a bit."

Sophy leaned her head on her hand. She felt mortally tired—soul, mind, and body.

"Very well, then, Gaynor," she said, in a low voice, "at nine o'clock I will come to Mr. Chesney's room."

When she entered her husband's room that evening, she saw that he was expecting her. His face lighted up as she came in, and he held out one hand towards her. His eyes showed the dulled surface and contracted pupils that she now knew meant a recent dose of morphia. Otherwise, his appearance was normal. But when he began to speak she noted the dryness of the mouth which she felt must also be produced by the drug. He was propped upon several large pillows, as on that evening some two weeks ago, and there were books and writing materials around him. She was surprised to see a glass of champagne on the little table, remembering what Gaynor had said about Dr. Carfew's commands in that respect. Then she realised that the man was merely violating instructions on this occasion in order to put her husband in a fitting condition for their talk.

Chesney saw her look at the glass of wine, and said with good-humoured peevishness:

"I see you're wondering at my scant allowance. But that old screw Gaynor is a terrible bully at these times. He knows he has me in his power—confound him! So he keeps me on short rations of everything that's the least pleasant. Besides, the stuff's flat by now, being poured out in a glass like that, instead of served properly in a bottle."

Then the fretful expression left his face, and a look of admiration replaced it.

"By Jove—you look like a lovely gold statue of Diana in that gown! There's something so ineradicably virginal about you—keeps a chap falling in love with you over and over."

Sophy hated the especial voice in which he spoke just then. It was the voice of an amiably inclined Pasha, congratulating himself on his taste in favourites. She had again put on the orange tea-gown that he liked, feeling that she must soften him in every way possible before telling him the painful truth, on his reception of which so much depended. From the full petal-like collar, her throat rose like a white stamen from a gold corolla. Chesney's eyes gloated over her—his chief possession.

"George, but you're a beauty!" he said, with his silent laugh. "And shy! You're wincing this very minute under my praise—my conjugal praise. You know you are—you incorrigible Artemis."

Sophy looked at him thoughtfully, marvelling. Was it possible that he had no clear memory of that dreadful dinner at the House of Commons? Yes. It must be so. With all his latent brutality, he could not have been cognisant of what he had done there, and yet speak and seem like this. And it was very hard to know how to begin. It seemed so terrible a thing to have to bring a look of confusion, of shame even, to that confident, almost condescendingly assured face. She could not divine the wild sense of triumph that filled him, because of the accustomed poison in his veins after his twenty-four hours of enforced fast from it. He felt that his "strength was as the strength of ten," because he felt also the bite of the admirable and abominable drug at his midriff. The sting of the spot where the needle had thrust into his flesh was sweet as the sting left by a kiss to the normal lover. He knew that he risked the danger of an abscess every time that he thrust the needle into his arms or legs, already so thickly punctured. He did not care. Morphia gives this carelessness—this calm recklessness of all that may follow.

"Cecil ..." said Sophy suddenly. She leaned forward and took his hand in both hers. His lids contracted. He recognised the tone in her voice, and it made him uneasy. There was always something disturbing to follow, when Sophy spoke in that tone.

"Well?" he said; and his voice told her, on her side, that he was on the defensive.

"Cecil—your feeling is right. I mean I hear in your voice that you feel I am going to say something that will be painful. But it's ... it's my love for you that makes me say it. You'll believe that, won't you?"

He kept his eyes narrowed and fixed on her. The look was so like his mother's in certain moods that she felt her heart sink.

"Well," he said again, "get it over whatever it is."

She held his hand tight. It was as if she, not he, were drowning, and she clung to his hand for succour—not to give it. He felt that she held her breath for an instant. Then she said, very low, her eyes imploring him:

"My dear, when you were ill yesterday, I had to send for a doctor."

He jerked his hand away so violently that he dragged her forward on to her knees beside the bed. She stayed herself against it, never taking her eyes from his face.

"You—did what?" he said in a fierce whisper.

"Oh, Cecil!... Don't look at me like that. Don't look at me with such cruel eyes. You seemed dying—you were unconscious for hours. What else could I do? Be just—tell me that. What else could I have done?"

He was thinking like lightning. Thoughts zigzagged against the black cloud of anger in his mind in fiery flashes—clear as they were swift. How much had this doctor guessed—or known? What had he said? How much did Sophy know? What rÔle would it be best for him to play? He had long dreaded this contingency. He knew that sometimes he overdosed himself with the drug. There were blank spaces in his life—gaps which he could not fill in with any sequence of events, try as he might. What had happened? What had he himself said or done? Had he left the hypodermic syringe where she could see it? Had Gaynor turned disloyal? One bit of clear reason rose dominant above the chaos of surmise. He must appear calm, no matter how violent the tumult of his secret self. He must remain passive until some cue was given him, then act out consistently the part that seemed best suited to the occasion. He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them their expression was no longer furious.

"You must excuse me, Sophy," he said rather formally. "I think you must be able to imagine the shock it was to me to hear that you had called in one of those dirty fakirs, knowing as you do my opinion of the fraternity."

He heard the breath that she had again held in escape softly, little by little from her bosom which was pressed against the bedclothes. She was still kneeling where he had dragged her forward. It was an attitude of prayer. Her whole body seemed to beseech him. Yet, though he saw this, he was not moved by it, except to extra caution. She could not speak at once, so he spoke again himself. Each word that he uttered calmed him. The naturalness of his assumed tone reassured him as it fell upon his own ear. As he would have said of another, he was "doing it damned well."

"I hope, since you adopted such radical measures," he remarked coldly, "that you at least chose a decent specimen. Was it by any chance my mother's little medical poodle!"

"No—Cecil. Doctor Hopkins came afterwards, but——"

"What? you had two of those vermin in my house yesterday?"

There was rage in his eyes again. Quickly he veiled them.

"This is a bit overwhelming, you must admit," he said in a tired voice. Then he asked: "Who was the other luminary of hypocrisy?"

"It was Doctor Carfew, Cecil—Algernon Carfew."

Chesney's worst fears were realised. If this man had seen him, he knew. A dark, smothering fear rushed over him—he was a brave man, but this vague, shadowy yet poignant terror seemed to turn his very vitals to water. He was as afraid of the fancied image of this accursedly knowing physician as a condemned lout of the headsman. It seemed to him, lying there, a strong man, master of his own house, the free-born citizen of a great Empire, that he was yet but a little doll of pith in the clutches of this grim, devilishly well-informed scientist. The medical profession took suddenly a symbolic form in his mind—it bulked before him like a huge, black Octopus heaving up from that shadowy sea of dread in which he was sinking. One of the vast tentacles had gripped him—was dragging him down—down. It was with amazement that he heard his own voice demanding in icy composure:

"And the verdict of this learned gentleman?"

He had closed his eyes again as though bored and wearied by the subject. He felt one of Sophy's soft, bare arms go round his neck. Her hair brushed his lips as she laid her head upon his breast. Her face was hidden from him. He heard her impassioned whisper:

"Cecil—don't, don't shut me out! Let me share it, I know— I know!"