"Nor our hells!" He still spoke vehemently. "Yes, there are times in all our lives when oblivion, forgetfulness, seems very desirable, very alluring. But let me entreat you, Mrs. Carstairs, not to seek to enter Paradise by that devil's key!"
Her almond-shaped eyes grew still more narrow as she looked at him.
"I wonder why you speak so impressively," she said slowly. "As a doctor doubtless you are au fait in the subject, yet your vehemence seems to imply——" She paused.
"As a doctor I've seen enough of the havoc the opium fiend plays in the lives of men—and women," he said steadily, "to realize the danger that lies in the insidious habit. I have seen women—women like you"—he had no idea of sparing her—"young, of good position and all the rest of it, who have slid into the deadly thing on the flimsiest of pretexts—and then, too late, have realized they are bound—for life—with fetters which cannot be broken."
"Yet the deadly thing is fascinating, isn't it? Else why do so many fall under its sway?"
"Fascinating?" With an inward shudder Anstice recalled those months after Hilda Ryder's death—those horrible, chaotic months when, in a vain endeavour to stifle thought, to deaden remorse, he had invoked the aid of the poppy, and by so doing had almost precipitated a moral catastrophe which should have been more overwhelming than the first. "For God's sake, Mrs. Carstairs, don't become obsessed by that idea. The morphia habit is one degrading slavery of mind and body, and only the miserable victims know how delusive are its promises, how unsatisfactory its rewards. What can you expect from a cult whose highest reward—the only thing, indeed, it has to offer you, is—oblivion?"
Chloe Carstairs did not reply. Instead, she turned away and moved across the room to a small black escritoire which stood against the white wall. Bending down she opened it, and after pressing a spring, released what appeared to be a secret drawer. From this she lifted out a little packet wrapped in white paper and sealed with red wax, and holding it in her hand she came slowly back to where Anstice stood, made vaguely uncomfortable by her curious, almost secretive manner.
"Dr. Anstice"—she held out the packet—"will you take charge of this for me? It is the key—what you called the devil's key just now—to the Paradise I have never had the courage to enter."
Anstice took the little parcel from her with something of sternness in his face.
"Yes, Mrs. Carstairs. But what, exactly, is this thing?"