"If it could be done with safety to myself," he said, "I would entertain the offer; but you know as well as I do that it could not be so done."
"Why not?" I asked.
"You would betray me."
"I will swear a solemn oath that your name shall never pass my lips."
"An oath that you would break at the first convenient opportunity. You are a man with a conscience, and you would hasten to prove the innocence of Gerald Paget. How would you accomplish that without mention of my name? Come, now--air your sophistry, and see if you can persuade me to act like an idiot. As for money, I am well supplied. When I am rid of you and this stubborn little witch I mean to enjoy myself in another country."
He pulled out a bundle of bank-notes, and flourished them before my eyes. I thought of Bob's words that M. Felix kept always a large sum of money on his person, and I knew that the notes had once been his. Our gaoler took pride in such like acts of ostentatious candor, to show how completely he had us in his power and how little he had to fear from us. I cannot say at what period of our imprisonment I fell into a stupor which would have lasted till the hour of my death had Dr. Peterssen's fell intentions succeeded. It seemed to last for an eternity of days and nights, and in the few intervals of consciousness which came to me I prayed that I might not grow mad. Sometimes I heard Dr. Peterssen's voice as he forced water and sopped biscuit down my throat. I had no desire to refuse the food, but my strength was gone, and it was with difficulty that I could swallow. I could have borne my fate better had it not been that Sophy was never absent from my mind. Sleeping or waking I thought of her, and my misery was increased tenfold. I remember an occasion when I whispered to Dr. Peterssen:
"Is she still alive?"
"She is still alive," he said with a brutal laugh. "She has the pluck and strength of a dozen men."
Those were the last words he addressed to me, in my remembrance, nor do I remember speaking to him again. Delirious fancies held possession of me, and although I must have had periods of utter insensibility I do not recall them. I could not now distinguish the real from the unreal. I heard voices that did not speak; I saw pictures that had no existence; I passed through experiences as intangible as the gloom which encompassed us. All the people I knew, but chiefly those with whom I had been lately associated, played their parts in my wild fancies. The scene on the Thames Embankment with Emilia, my midnight visit to her daughter Constance, my adventures with Sophy, the episodes in the police court and M. Felix's chambers, my journeys to and fro in search of clews to the mystery, the introduction of Bob Tucker into the affair, all these and every other incident associated with my championship of a wronged and injured lady, took new and monstrous forms in my disordered imagination. I grew weaker and weaker. Surely the end must soon come.
It came. There were loud shouts and cries, and voices raised in menace, terror, and defiance. These sounds conjured up a host of confused forms struggling around me. A hand touched my face, an arm was passed round my neck; my head lay upon a man's shoulder.