As these thoughts rushed over him his pace quickened, mounting the stairs two steps at a time so that he might save his friend even a moment of additional suffering. The doctor touched Jack on the shoulder, made a sign for him to moderate his steps, and the two moved to where his patient lay.
Garry was on the bed, outside the covering, when they entered. He was lying on his back, his head and neck flat on a pillow, one foot resting on the floor. He was in his trousers and shirt; his coat and waistcoat lay where he had thrown them.
“Garry,” began Jack in a low voice—“I just ran in to say that—”
The sick man did not move.
Jack stopped, and turned his head to the doctor.
“Asleep?” he whispered.
“No;—drugged. That's why I wanted you to see him before I called his wife. Is he accustomed to this sort of thing?” and he picked up a bottle from the table.
Jack took the phial in his hand; it was quite small, and had a glass stopper.
“What is it, doctor?”
“I don't know. Some preparation of chloral, I should think; smells and looks like it. I'll take it home and find out. If he's been taking this right along he may know how much he can stand, but if he's experimenting with it, he'll wake up some fine morning in the next world. What do you know about it?”