r an eye,
or a stomach, and so on. Well, Mr. Chesney"--he turned sideways in his
chair and fixed his cold, super-intelligent eyes on the sick
man's--"your fate in the Skitzland of morphia will be to exist only as
one huge, avid, diseased nerve-cell rank with the lust of morphia. Just
that. Nothing more. And this diseased nerve-cell which will be you would
slay Christ if He appeared again, and you thought the last dose of
morphia were secreted in the Seamless Garment. Good-morning."

And he was gone before Cecil could moisten his dry lips to reply.

Anne found him sullenly resentful of the doctor's visit.

"I hope you've packed that old prime faker back to the courts of
science," he grumbled, as she busied herself tidying his bed which he
had rumpled with his ill-humoured tossings. "I'll none of him nor his
damned mountebanking, that's flat."

"He'll none of _you_, unless you do as he wishes, and that's flatter,"
rejoined Anne tartly.

Chesney gave a whiff of utter contempt.

"Stick myself in one of his man-traps, I suppose you mean. I'll sign to
Mephisto with my blood first!--Just let 'em try it on!" he added
ominously.

"Oh you make me tired!--tired and sick," flashed Anne Harding. "You talk
and act as if we were all trying to lure you to destruction, instead of
wearing ourselves to the bone to save you from worse than death! Look
here----" She drew up a chair and sat down squarely on it, her little
black eyes like coals in which a red spark lingers. "_I'm_ not going to
stay on with you as things are, so I might just as well have my say
out-- I don't give a hang whether it's 'unprofessional' or not. So I'll
just tell you this: Your mother went back on you this morning. I mean
she went over to our side--we, who'd put you in a sanatorium ay or no.
'Twas your wife held out against it. And the more I think of it, the
more I believe she's right. Says she, 'No, I won't lend myself to using
force on him. Unless he goes of his own will it won't do any good.' I
didn't think so then. But I do now. If your own will is bent on
perdition, not all the other wills in the world are going to save you.
That's why I'm going to give you up. I'm too useful, thank God! to waste
my time on a man who's hell-bent on his own destruction."

She pushed the chair sharply back, and got up.

"Hold on!" cried Chesney as she turned away. He had listened to her
without interruption, a most peculiar expression on his face. "Did I
understand y