arriage was a mistake. She had an idea that we should do better in New
York--so we came here a few months ago, and we've done decidedly worse."

Justine listened with a sense of discouragement. She saw now that he did
not mean to acknowledge his failing, and knowing the secretiveness of
the drug-taker she decided that he was deluded enough to think he could
still deceive her.

"Well," he began again, with an attempt at jauntiness, "I've found out
that in my profession it's a hard struggle to get on your feet again,
after illness or--or any bad set-back. That's the reason I asked you to
say a word for me. It's not only the money, though I need that badly--I
want to get back my self-respect. With my record I oughtn't to be where
I am--and you can speak for me better than any one."

"Why better than the doctors you've worked with?" Justine put the
question abruptly, looking him straight in the eyes.

His glance dropped, and an unpleasant flush rose to his thin cheeks.

"Well--as it happens, you're better situated than any one to help me to
the particular thing I want."

"The particular thing----?"

"Yes. I understand that Mr. Langhope and Mrs. Ansell are both interested
in the new wing for paying patients at Saint Christopher's. I want the
position of house-physician there, and I know you can get it for me."

His tone changed as he spoke, till with the last words it became rough
and almost menacing.

Justine felt her colour rise, and her heart began to beat confusedly.
Here was the truth, then: she could no longer be the dupe of her own
compassion. The man knew his power and meant to use it. But at the
thought her courage was in arms.

"I'm sorry--but it's impossible," she said.

"Impossible--why?"

She continued to look at him steadily. "You said just now that you
wished to regain your self-respect. Well, you must regain it before you
can ask me--or any one else--to recommend you to a position of trust."

Wyant half-rose, with an angry murmur. "My self-respect? What do you
mean? _I_ meant that I'd lost courage--through ill-luck----"

"Yes; and your ill-luck has come through your own fault. Till you cure
yourself you're not fit to cure others."

He sank back into his seat, glowering at her under sullen brows; then
his expression gradually changed to half-sneering admiration. "You're a
plucky one!" he said.

Justine repressed a movement of disgust. "I am very sorry for you," she
said gravely. "I saw this