"You may say so," replied the other, "and you may also say an efficient one. But I am always the last to be summoned. I am a last resource; my remedy is a heroic one. But it prevails—inevitably. No pain, my dear Verrill, so sharp that I cannot allay, no anguish so great that I cannot soothe."
"Then perhaps you may prescribe for me," said Verrill. "Of late I have been perturbed. I have lived under a certain strain, certain contingencies threaten, which, no doubt unreasonably, I have come to dread. I am shaken, nervous, fearful. My own doctor has been unable to help me. Perhaps you—"
The stranger had already opened the bottle of wine which stood by his plate, and filled the silver cup. He handed it to Verrill.
"Drink," he said.
Verrill hesitated:
"But this wine," he protested: "This cup—pardon me, it was reserved—"
"Drink," repeated the stranger. "Trust me."
He took Verrill's glass in which he had drunk the toasts and which yet contained a little wine. He pressed the silver cup into Verrill's hands.
"Drink," he urged for the third time.
Verrill took the cup, and the stranger raised his glass.