Mr. Elliott made no reply.  A blow from the arm of a strong man could not have hurt or stunned him more.

“You needn’t feel so dreadfully about it,” said Mr. Ridley seeing the effect produced on the clergy man.  “It wasn’t any fault of yours.  The prescription was all right, but, you see, the wine wasn’t good.  If it had been pure, the kind you drink, all would have been well.  I should have gained strength instead of having the props knocked from under me.”

But Mr. Elliott did not answer.  The magnitude of the evil wrought through his unguarded speech appalled him.  He had learned, in his profession, to estimate the value of a human soul, or rather to consider it as of priceless value.  And here was a human soul cast by his hand into a river whose swift waters were hurrying it on to destruction.  The sudden anguish that he felt sent beads of sweat to his forehead and drew his flexible lips into rigid lines.

“Now, don’t be troubled about it,” urged Mr. Ridley.  “You were all right.  It was Mr. Birtwell’s bad wine that did the mischief.”

Then his manner changed, and his voice falling to a tone of solicitation, he said: 

“And now, Mr. Elliott, you know good wine—­you don’t have anything else.  I believe in your theory as much as I believe in my existence.  It stands to reason.  I’m all broken up and run down.  Not much left of me, you see.  Bad liquor is killing me, and I can’t stop.  If I do, I shall die.’  God help me!”

His voice shook now, and the muscles of his face quivered.

“Some good wine—­some pure wine, Mr. Elliott!” he went on, his voice rising and his manner becoming more excited.  “It’s all over with me unless I can get pure wine.  Save me, Mr. Elliott, save me, for God’s sake!”

The miserable man held out his hands imploringly.  There was wild look in his face.  He was trembling from head to foot.

“One glass of pure wine, Mr. Elliott—­just one glass.”  Thus he kept on pleading for the stimulant his insatiable appetite was craving.  “I’m a drowning man.  The floods are about me.  I am sinking in dark waters.  And you can save me if you will!”

Seeing denial still on the clergyman’s face, Mr. Ridley’s manner changed, becoming angry and violent.

“You will not?” he cried, starting from the chair in which he had been sitting and advancing toward Mr. Elliott.

“I cannot.  I dare not.  You have been drinking too much already,” replied the clergyman, stepping back as Mr. Ridley came forward until he reached the bell-rope, which he jerked violently.  The door of his study opened instantly.  His servant, not, liking the visitor’s appearance, had remained in the hall outside and came in the moment he heard the bell.  On seeing him enter, Mr. Ridley turned from the clergyman and stood like one at bay.  His eyes had a fiery gleam; there was anger on his brow and defiance in the hard lines of his mouth.  He scowled at the servant threateningly.  The latter, a strong and resolute man, only waited for an order to remove the visitor, which he would have done in a very summary way, but Mr. Elliott wanted no violence.