He turned, with all the round knobs that constituted his face, aglow.  His side-whiskers waved apart like wings about to flap.  He protruded his face towards his seated patient.  “I am glad that he has been killed,” he said.  “Glad!  There!”

His glasses fell off—­shocked beyond measure.  He did not heed them.  They swung about in front of him as if they sought to escape while he poured out his feelings.

“Fool!” he spluttered with demonstrative gestures.  “Dangerous fool!  His one idea—­to upset everybody.  Drugs, Sir!  The most terrible drugs!  I come back.  Find ladies.  High social position.  Morphine-maniacs.  Others.  Reckless use of the most dangerous expedients....  Cocaine not in it.  Stimulants—­violent stimulants.  In the highest quarters.  Terrible.  Exalted persons.  Royalty!  Anxious to be given war work and become anonymous....  Horrible!  He’s been a terrible influence.  One idea—­to disturb soul and body.  Minds unhinged.  Personal relations deranged.  Shattered the practice of years.  The harm he has done!  The harm!”

He looked as though he was trying to burst—­as a final expression of wrath.  He failed.  His hands felt trembling to recover his pince-nez.  Then from his tail pocket he produced a large silk handkerchief and wiped the glasses.  Replaced them.  Wriggled his head in his collar, running his fingers round his neck.  Patted his tie.

“Excuse this outbreak!” he said.  “But Dr. Dale has inflicted injuries!”

Scrope got up, walked slowly to the window, clasping his hands behind his back, and turned.  His manner still retained much of his episcopal dignity.  “I am sorry.  But still you can no doubt tell from your books what it was he gave me.  It was a tonic that had a very great effect on me.  And I need it badly now.”

Dr. Brighton-Pomfrey was quietly malignant.  “He kept no diary at all,” he said.  “No diary at all.”

“But

“If he did,” said Dr. Brighton-Pomfrey, holding up a flat hand and wagging it from side to side, “I wouldn’t follow his treatment.”  He intensified with the hand going faster.  “I wouldn’t follow his treatment.  Not under any circumstances.”

“Naturally,” said Scrope, “if the results are what you say.  But in my case it wasn’t a treatment.  I was sleepless, confused in my mind, wretched and demoralized; I came here, and he just produced the stuff—­It clears the head, it clears the mind.  One seems to get away from the cloud of things, to get through to essentials and fundamentals.  It straightened me out....  You must know such a stuff.  Just now, confronted with all sorts of problems arising out of my resignation, I want that tonic effect again.  I must have it.  I have matters to decide—­and I can’t decide.  I find myself uncertain, changeable from hour to hour.  I don’t ask you to take up anything of this man Dale’s.  This is a new occasion.  But I want that drug.”

At the beginning of this speech Dr. Brighton-Pomfrey’s hands had fallen to his hips.  As Scrope went on the doctor’s pose had stiffened.  His head had gone a little on one side; he had begun to play with his glasses.  At the end he gave vent to one or two short coughs, and then pointed his words with his glasses held out.