"Chalmers," I muttered, "you must stop that. There is nothing in this room that can harm you. Do you understand?"
I continued to shake and admonish him, and gradually the madness died out of his face. Shivering convulsively, he crumpled into a grotesque heap on the Chinese rug.
I carried him to the sofa and deposited him upon it. His features were twisted in pain, and I knew that he was still struggling dumbly to escape from abominable memories.
"Whisky," he muttered. "You'll find a flask in the cabinet by the window—upper left-hand drawer."
When I handed him the flask his fingers tightened about it until the knuckles showed blue. "They nearly got me," he gasped. He drained the stimulant in immoderate gulps, and gradually the color crept back into his face.
"That drug was the very devil!" I murmured.
"It wasn't the drug," he moaned.
His eyes no longer glared insanely, but he still wore the look of a lost soul.
"They scented me in time," he moaned. "I went too far."