It was not long before, as the most natural remark in the world following something he had made her say, just as a clever prestidigitator forces a card, he asked, “What was it I saw you snuffing over in the booth—happy dust?”
She did not even take the trouble to deny it, but nodded a brazen “Yes.” “How did you come to use it first?” he asked, careful not to give offense in either tone or manner.
“The usual way, I suppose,” she replied with a laugh that sounded harsh and grating. “I was ill and I found out what it was the doctor was giving me.”
“And then?”
“Oh, I thought I would use it only as long as it served my purpose and, when that was over, give it up.”
“But—?” prompted Craig hypnotically.
“Instead, I was soon using six, eight, ten tablets of heroin a day. I found that I needed that amount in order to live. Then it went up by leaps to twenty, thirty, forty.”
“Suppose you couldn’t get it, what then?”
“Couldn’t get it?” she repeated with an unspeakable horror. “Once I thought I’d try to stop. But my heart skipped beats; then it seemed to pound away, as if trying to break through my ribs. I don’t think heroin is like other drugs. When one has her ‘coke’—that’s cocaine—taken away, she feels like a rag. Fill her up and she can do anything again. But, heroin—I think one might murder to get it!”
The expression on the woman’s face was almost tragic. I verily believe that she meant it.