"This is a grave case, Mrs. Chesney," he said, in his abrupt "no-nonsense-now" voice. "I gathered from your husband's valet that you have not a clear idea of how matters stand."
"No. I have not," she said.
"There is no doubt about it. Your husband is the victim of a most fatal habit."
She continued looking at him in silence.
"Have you never even suspected the cause of his ailment?" he asked brusquely.
"Yes—but I did not know enough to be certain."
"It is a clear case—a very clear case, and an aggravated one," said Carfew. "Mr. Chesney is a morphinomaniac. He is so addicted to the drug that he varies the effect with cocaine—takes them alternately—both drugs hypodermically."
Sophy sat as before, gazing at him without a word. It was as if it paralysed her to hear these long-surmised horrors put into plain words.
Carfew glanced at her with some irritation.
"I hope you are not going to allow yourself to give way to an attack of nerves because I speak frankly," he said.