But Mr. Jocelyn’s employers had little knowledge of the vice, and they were not in the least inclined to pity.  They felt that they had been imposed upon, and that too at a time when all business men were very restless under useless expenditure.  It was the man’s fault and not misfortune that he had failed so signally in securing trade from the South, and, while they had paid him but a small salary, his ill-directed and wavering efforts had involved them in considerable expense.  Asking the physician to remain, they summoned Mr. Jocelyn to the private office, and directly charged him with the excessive and habitual use of opium.

The poor man was at first greatly confused, and trembled as if in an ague fit, for his nerve power was already so shattered that he had little self-control in an emergency.  This, of course, was confirmation of guilt in their eyes.

“Gentlemen, you do me a great wrong,” he managed to say, and hastily left the office.  Having secreted himself from observation he snatched out his hypodermic syringe, and within six minutes felt himself equal to any crisis.  Boldly returning to the office he denied the charge in the most explicit terms, and with some show of lofty indignation.  The physician who was still present watched him closely, and noticed that the cuff on his left hand was somewhat crumpled, as if it had been recently pushed back.  Without a word he seized Mr. Jocelyn’s arm and pulled back his coat and shirt sleeve, revealing a bright red puncture just made, and many others of a remoter date.

“There is no use in lying about such matters to me,” said the physician.  “How much morphia did you inject into your arm since you left us?”

“I am a victim of neuralgia,” Mr. Jocelyn began, without any hesitation, “and the cruel and unreasonable charge here made against me brought on an acute paroxysm, and therefore I—­”

“Stop that nonsense,” interrupted the doctor, roughly.  “Don’t you know that lying, when lying is of no use, is one of the characteristic traits of an opium-eater?  I am a physician, and have seen too many cases to be deceived a moment.  You have all the symptoms of a confirmed morphia consumer, and if you ever wish to break your chains you had better tell doctors the truth and put yourself under the charge of one in whom you have confidence.”

“Well, curse you!” said Mr. Jocelyn savagely, “it was through one of your damnable fraternity that I acquired what you are pleased to call my chains, and now you come croaking to my employers, poisoning their minds against me.”

“Oh, as to poisoning,” remarked the physician sarcastically, “I’ll wager a thousand dollars that you have absorbed enough morphia within the last twenty-four hours to kill every one in this office.  At the rate you are going on, as far as I can judge from appearances, you will soon poison yourself out of existence.  No physician ever advised the destroying vice you are practicing, and no physician would take offence at your words any more than at the half-demented ravings of a fever patient.  You are in a very critical condition, sir, and unless you can wake up to the truth and put forth more will-power than most men possess you will soon go to the bad.”