He returned to the hotel at the end of six weeks. It was the dinner hour but his wife was not at the piano. He tapped on the door that led from the parlor to her bedroom, and although there was no response he turned the knob and entered.
Madeleine was lying on the bed, asleep apparently.
He went forward anxiously; he had never known her to sleep at this hour before. He touched her lightly on the shoulder, but she did not awaken. Then he bent over her, and drew back with a frown. But although horrified he was far from suspecting the whole truth. He had been compelled to break more than one patient of too ardent a fidelity to his prescriptions.
He forced an emetic down her throat, but it had no effect. Then he picked her up and carried her into the bath room and held her head under the shower. The blood flowed down from her congested brain. She struggled out of his arms and looked at him with dull angry eyes.
"What do you mean?" she demanded. "How dared you do such a thing to me?"
"You had taken too much, my dear," he said kindly. "Or else it affects you more than it did—possibly because you no longer need it. I shall taper you off by degrees, and then I think we can do without it."
"Without it? I couldn't live without it. I need more—and more—" She looked about wildly.
"Oh, that is all right. They always think so at first. In six months you will have forgotten it. Remember, I am a doctor—and a good one, if I say so myself."
She dropped her eyes. "Very well," she said humbly. "Of course you know best."
"Now, put on dry clothes and let us have dinner. It seems a year since
I dined with you."