They had reached the third floor.  He inserted a key in a door, hesitated a moment, then said abruptly:  “I saw in a paper that she had returned.  Can it be possible?”

“I saw her on the Avenue a few moments ago.”

Was it the doctor’s imagination, or did the goaded man at his side flash him a glance of appeal?

They entered a room whose doors and windows were muffled.  The furniture was solid, too solid to be moved except by muscular arms.  There were no mirrors nor breakable articles of any sort.

On the bed lay a woman with ragged hair and sunken yellow face, but even in her ruin indefinably elegant.  Her parted lips were black and blistered within; her shapely skinny hands clutched the quilt with the tenacious suggestion of the eagle—­that long-lived defiant bird.  At the bedside sat a vigorous woman, the pallor of fatigue on her face.

The creature on the bed opened her eyes.  They had once been what are vaguely known as fine eyes; now they looked like blots of ink on parchment.

“Give me a drink,” she said feverishly.  “Water! water! water!” She panted, and her tongue protruded slightly.  Her husband turned away, his shoulders twitching.  The nurse held a silver goblet to the woman’s lips.  She drank greedily, then scowled up at the doctor.

“You missed it,” she said.  “I should be glad, for I hate you, only you give me more relief than they.  They are afraid.  They tried to fool me, the idiots!  But they didn’t try it twice.  I bit.”

She laughed and threw her arms above her head.  The loose sleeves of her gown fell back and disclosed arms speckled as if from an explosion of gunpowder.

“Just an ordinary morphine fiend,” thought the doctor.  “And she is the wife of John Schuyler!”

An hour after dinner he told the husband and nurse to go to bed.  For a while he read, the woman sleeping profoundly.  The house was absolutely still, or seemed to be.  Had pandemonium reigned he could hardly have heard an echo of it from this isolated room.  The window was open, but looked upon roofs and back yards; no sound of carriage wheels rose to break the quiet.  Despite the stillness, the doctor had to strain his ear to catch the irregular breathing of the sick woman.  He had a singular feeling, although the most unimaginative of men, that this third floor, containing only himself and the woman, had been sliced from the rest of the house and hung suspended in space, independent of natural laws.  It was after the book had ceased to interest him that the idea shaped itself, born of another, as yet unacknowledged, skulking in the recesses of his brain.  At length he laid aside the book, and going to the bed, looked down upon the woman, coldly, reflectively—­exactly as he had often watched the quivering of an animal—­dissected alive in the cause of science.

Studying this man’s face, it was impossible to imagine it agitated by any passion except thirst for knowledge.  The skin was as white as marble; the profile was straight and mathematical, the mouth a straight line, the chin as square as that of a chiselled Fate.  The jaw was prominent, powerful, relentless.  The eyes were deeply set and gray as polished steel.  The large brow was luminous, very full—­an index to the terrible intellect of the man.