Treves clutched his arm.
"What?"
"Morphia," answered Cherriton.
He led the way into a low-ceilinged bedroom at the end of the cottage, carrying the candle from the parlour table as he went. He placed the light on the dressing table near the window, took a key from his pocket, and opened a drawer in the only chest of drawers in the small room.
Treves, watching him with impatient eyes, moistened his lips and waited.
Cherriton searched in the drawer and drew out a syringe and a small bottle.
"Here," he said to Treves, "sit over on the chair near the dressing table."
Treves greedily eyed the syringe, and obediently seated himself with his back to the little mirror. The candle on the white dimity cloth of the dressing table threw its light full upon him. He watched Cherriton fill the syringe with morphia, and almost clutched it from his hand.
"Wait," said the German, holding him off, "you shall have it full."
"Thanks—thanks—thanks."