“The reason I can’t tell you,” began the victim, “is....”
“I must beg you to let me act in my own way, sir,” broke in Sir Henry almost angrily. “If you refuse me essential information, the consequences will not be on my head....” He paused. “Since you refuse to inform me on this point—and I must tell you I am used to such difficulties—I will leave it,” and he wrote down, “Probable case of chronic alcoholism. Consumption daily in last five months at least one liter at 12%, one deciliter at 35%; probably more.”
“Can you tell me,” said the Specialist, breaking new ground and preparing again to write, “whether at any stage you have used drugs—even as long ago as five or ten years?”
“I am afraid I can’t,” said Mr. Petre.
The Medical Genius restrained his temper, determined—he was a conscientious man—to do his best by the impossible fellow, and started anew.
“I must now,” he continued, putting on a look of much greater importance than he had yet assumed, and settling himself up in his chair, “I must now, my dear sir, put to you a very intimate question indeed; it is one which we always have to ask at this stage of our inquiries.” (Mr. Petre marveled what that stage exactly was. But he was wise enough to remain silent.) “Do you dream?”
“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Petre cheerfully. He was all right now; this was plain sailing. The pen began writing busily.
“For instance,” murmured the Sepulchral voice, the face still bent over the paper, “last night?”
“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Petre. “Most nights. Last night certainly. Yes, most nights.”
The pen was now working furiously.