"D'ye think I like getting drunk, Perry? But there are worse things—madness and murder. A bullet would be quick, but I still have hope—sometimes—and death by drink is a slow business, so I've chosen death by drink—"
"Why, Tony? What is the trouble? Is it—Barbara—your Loveliness?"
"She has never been the same since she came back from abroad, Perry. Some secret trouble—all these weeks it has been getting worse—she has sometimes seemed afraid of me—of me, Perry! At last I taxed her with it—begged she'd confide in me. She told me there was nothing, laughed it off and I believed it, like a fool—but that night, Perry—that night, as she slept—and looking pure and holy as one of God's angels, she—cried on a name—a man's name. I woke her—questioned her, begged, implored, commanded—and still she laughed, but always with the fear in her eyes. And I know she lied! Then I took to watching her and she me—and so it went on until—there were times when I could have struck her—choked the truth out of her—O Perry! So I left her—went to London. Oh damnation, d'ye wonder I drink? Better drink myself to the devil than harm her—though drink will take a long time to kill me, I'm afraid—"
"Drink never shall, Tony! There, sit down, old fellow, calm yourself, for by heaven I think you are making much out of little—"
"Why did she lie to me?"
"Are you sure she did?"
"Certain!"
"What do you propose to do?"
"Go back to London."
"Then I will accompany you."