n the slaves of morphia themselves. In a flash--in the
twinkling of an eye, he seemed to see a new course open before him--a
course that would save him from the powers of darkness as represented in
his distorted mind by the medical profession. Holding out his hand, he
said in quite a different voice, a very gentle one indeed:

"Come here, Sophy."

A wondering look stole over her face. She went to him almost timidly,
seated herself on the edge of the bed, and put her hand in his.

"See here, my child," said he, still in that kind, moderate voice.
"Whatever else you have in mind, don't forget that I'm a rather ill
man."

"I don't ... I don't ... not for a moment."

"And you must bear with me if I say things a bit lamely."

"Say anything...." she began eagerly, then restrained herself. "Say
anything," she repeated more soberly.

"Very well, then. But please don't exclaim or get emotional, will you?
My head's beastly tired. I've had rather a tight squeak of it, Gaynor
tells me."

"Yes--you were very, very ill."

Her lip quivered. She pressed his hand nervously, then loosened her
fingers as though afraid of irritating him. But he returned the pressure
kindly. He was so absorbed in the part he had finally chosen that he
almost deceived himself with his fine acting--as some actors shed real
tears in moving roles--almost believed that he really felt kindly to
her, and was going to treat her with a noble candour.

"Well, then, Daphne, dear, I can guess what you mean when you say you
'_know_.' I guessed all the time, only one is not always rational when
one is ill, and this doctor business enraged me. I confess it frankly.
What you '_know_'--what you have found out, is that I take morphine, is
it not?"

He was looking at her keenly. The blood seemed to beat hotly back on her
heart, then fly in a jet to her startled face. Tears came into her eyes.
She bit her lip fiercely in her effort not to show her emotion. It was
so splendid of him--so deeply, pathetically moving, to hear him thus
calmly and honestly name the dreadful thing. She could not help it. She
lifted the great hand and pressed her lips to it. This soft touch almost
broke Chesney's strong self-control. Indirectly she was making him lie,
and he hated her for it--he really hated her at that moment. He could
have struck her with pleasure. "Sweet character I am," he thought
savagely; "among other things I've got a bit of Bill Sykes in me, too,
it seems." He cl