“In the case of a public man—yes. He exchanges his privacy for the interest of the masses. If he gives the masses the details of his success, why not the details of his failure? But was it drink that sucked him under?”
“No.” Chilcote's response came after a pause.
“Drugs?”
Again Chilcote hesitated. And at the moment of his indecision a woman brushed past him, laughing boisterously. The sound jarred him.
“Was it drugs?” the stranger went on easily. “I have always had a theory that it was.”
“Yes. It was morphia.” The answer came before Chilcote had realized it. The woman's laugh at the stranger's quiet persistence had contrived to draw it from him. Instantly he had spoken he looked about him quickly, like one who has for a moment forgotten a necessary vigilance.
There was silence while the stranger thought over the information just given him. Then he spoke again, with a new touch of vehemence.
“So I imagined,” he said. “Though, on my soul, I never really credited it. To have gained so much, and to have thrown it away for a common vice!” He made an exclamation of disgust.
Chilcote gave an unsteady laugh. “You judge hardly.” he said.
The other repeated his sound of contempt. “Justly so. No man has the right to squander what another would give his soul for. It lessens the general respect for power.”