“It is too late, I am afraid,” said Dr. Hillhouse as the two physicians rode away, “The case ought to have been seen last night.  I noticed the call when I came home from Mr. Birtwell’s, but the storm was frightful, and I did not feel like going out again.  In fact, if the truth must be told, I hardly gave the matter a thought.  I saw the call, but its importance did not occur to me.  Late hours, suppers and wine do not always leave the head as clear as it should be.”

“I do not like the looks of things,” returned Dr. Angier.  “All the symptoms are bad.”

“Yes, very bad.  I saw Mrs. Ridley yesterday morning, and found her doing well.  No sign of fever or any functional disturbance.  She must have had some shock or exposure to cold.”

“Her husband was out all night.  I learned that much from the nurse,” replied Dr. Angier.  “When the storm became violent, which was soon after ten o’clock, she grew restless and disturbed, starting up and listening as the snow dashed on the windowpanes and the wind roared angrily.  ‘I could not keep her down,’ said the nurse.  ’She would spring up in bed, throw off the clothes and sit listening, with a look of anxiety and dread on her face.  The wind came in through every chink and crevice, chilling the room in spite of all I could do to keep it warm.  I soon saw, from the color that began coming into her face and from the brightness in her eyes, that fever had set in.  I was alarmed, and sent for the doctor.’”

“And did this go on all night?” asked Dr. Hillhouse.

“Yes.  She never closed her eyes except in intervals of feverish stupor, from which she would start up and cry out for her husband, who was, she imagined, in some dreadful peril.”

“Bad! bad!” muttered Dr. Hillhouse.  “There’ll be a death, I fear, laid at Mr. Birtwell’s door.”

“I don’t understand you,” said his companion, in a tone of surprise.

“Mr. Ridley, as I have been informed,” returned Dr. Hillhouse, has been an intemperate man.  After falling very low, he made an earnest effort to reform, and so far got the mastery of his appetite as to hold it in subjection.  Such men are always in danger, as you and I very well know.  In nine cases out of ten—­or, I might say, in ninety-nine cases in a hundred—­to taste again is to fall.  It is like cutting the chain that holds a wild beast.  The bound but not dead appetite springs into full vigor again, and surprised resolution is beaten down and conquered.  To invite such a man to, an entertainment where wines and liquors are freely dispensed is to put a human soul in peril.”

“Mr. Birtwell may not have known anything about him,” replied Dr. Angier.

“All very true.  But there is one thing he did know.”

“What?”

“That he could not invite a company of three hundred men and women to his house, though he selected them from the most refined and intelligent circles in our city, and give them intoxicating drinks as freely as he did last night, without serious harm.  In such accompany there will be some, like Mr. Ridley, to whom the cup of wine offered in hospitality will be a cup of cursing.  Good resolutions will be snapped like thread in a candle-flame, and men who came sober will go away, as from any other drinking-saloon, drunk, as he went out last night.”