foot" of a Chinese woman; then there would crawl out from
under the curtain the violin itself, like the brown carapace of some
misshapen turtle, and its head was a woman's--a little Chinese harlot's,
with gilded underlip--and in place of the turtle's flippers, the
"lily-feet" and long-nailed, tiny hands would come scratching towards
him. Then, like a luxurious cat, the little turtle-violin would begin
rubbing itself against his feet, that were glued fast with terror, till
the strings underneath its belly would give forth again that sinister
Chinese music.

Or, in another dream even worse--conscious that he was dreaming--he
would begin to sink with his bed, slowly, very slowly, through the floor
of his room; down through the library which was underneath; down, down,
into the dark cellars where were stored the liquors that he craved;
down, ever down, into the wormy earth, among dead men's bones and all
uncleanness he would sink slowly, so slowly. And his hair oozy with
terror, his flesh glazed as with a coating of thin ice, he would think:
"This is what is called 'sinking to the lowest depth'--I am sinking to
hell ... to the sewers of hell...."

Then began a reckless orgy of self-indulgence. These horrors must come
because he was not getting enough of the drug--could not take it
hypodermically. He must alter this. He must take larger, ever larger
doses. And he must have stimulant. Damn them! They locked his own
father's wine-cellar against him, did they? Well, he would outwit them.
Where there was a will there was a way. Good old adage! Made for
morphinomaniacs!

He came to these conclusions on the Sunday that Sophy received Anne
Harding's telegram.

XXVII

On Wednesday evening, about eleven o'clock, Gaynor knocked at the door
of Sophy's bedroom. She was sitting before the fire, her dressing-gown
over her night-gown, ready for any emergency. She sent Tilda to bed
early these terrible days--living, as she did, in constant terror lest
the servants should witness some odious scandal.

She opened the door herself, not knowing who it might be. The little man
was very pale, he had the appearance attributed to those who have "just
seen a ghost." In his hand he held a white glass quart bottle. He looked
at Sophy without speaking.

"What is it? What _is_ it?" she urged. Her eyes were fixed on that big,
empty bottle. Why should Gaynor bring an empty bottle to her room at
eleven o'clock at night? Why was he so frigh