He pressed the button of the electric bell at his bedside. Gaynor appeared almost instantly. The man was very pale and his eyes had a strained, apprehensive look.
"Gaynor," said Cecil directly, "you've proved yourself an excellent servant. You have done quite right. Mrs. Chesney and I have talked my case over thoroughly. I realise that this drug has gained an undue hold on me--that it is an insidious enemy--and causes one to deceive oneself-- I therefore place myself in Mrs. Chesney's charge. You will assist her in every way in your power. I now wish to give to Mrs. Chesney, in your presence, my own private hypodermic syringe. You will find it in my locked letter-case. Here is the key."
He took it from under the pillow, and held it out to Gaynor. The man's face was livid. He experienced acute pain, in thus being forced to listen to his master's calm confession of duplicity in the presence of another. He unlocked the letter-case obediently and took out the little aluminum case. His hands were shaking.
Chesney lay back upon his pillows watching them with the sketch of a queer smile about his mouth. He himself broke the strained silence.
"And now, Gaynor," said he, "be so kind as to take away this stuff and bring me a fresh glass of wine."
Gaynor moved to the bedside as in a daze. Then his face worked suddenly.
"Oh ... sir!" he said in a husky whisper.
"There, that will do! I'd like to be alone for a bit. I'm sure you'll excuse me, Sophy."
She went and kissed him in silence. Gaynor had left the room at once, his head hung low on his breast. Sophy followed quickly.
When the door was shut, a convulsed look broke the assumed calm on Chesney's face.
"Damn it!" he choked, clenching his fist at the wall before him. "Damnation! I've lied to a man--and he believes me!"
Somehow, what had been almost an amusing game when played for Sophy's benefit, turned to stark humiliation when practised on another man.
He slipped from the bed and, striding to the door in his bare feet, snapped the lock. Then reaching his bed again, thrust his arm far in between the mattresses. He drew out a brand-new syringe--opened it deftly, fitted on the needle--took a spoon from a little drawer in the table. Heated water in it over the lamp, dissolved in it a half-grain tablet of morphia (he was afraid to take a larger dose lest it should prove noticeable)--stripped up the sleeve from his powerful forearm all covered with purplish knots, and drove the little needle home in his flesh, holding the syringe firmly in place by its curved, steel horns, so like the antennæ of some poisonous insect. Then he hid all away again--unlocked the door, and slipped quickly into bed.