“What’s happened to him?” the father asked sharply.
“Doped.”
“Doped? What for?”
“Didn’t you see there was no handling him in the mood he was in? Le Bain keeps his own knock-out drops for use on customers who become obstreperous—and I ordered him to fix Jack’s drink. The dose is light—it won’t hurt him.” Clifford abruptly changed the subject. “Well, you’ve got Jack. What are you going to do with him?”
Mr. Morton did not answer; his proud, powerful face, now pale, was fixed upon his son. Clifford also shifted his gaze to the huddled figure. Despite everything, Clifford really liked this good-natured piece of driftwood which washed so irresponsibly upon this great tide of pleasure. But what he felt most strongly at this moment was the ironical caprice of Destiny, which had enlarged so minor and will-less a figure, a mere pawn in this big human game, into so all-important a factor in Mary Regan’s life, and his own—and in the designs of many persons.
Clifford turned to the father. “Well—what next?” he prompted.
“I wish to God I knew!” Mr. Morton burst out, his reserve suddenly leaving him. “See what he’s come to! See what he’s done to himself!”
“He didn’t do it—at least not all,” Clifford said quietly.
“Who did, then?”
“Several persons—but chiefly his father.”