“I believe, sir, that Antony Crespin’s mother was a nice woman who needed help she didn’t get, or a chance and peace to help herself in, as I believe that Major Crespin needs help that I can perhaps give him and help him to help himself—which is the only help that amounts to anything in such cases——”
“I tell you——” Agnew broke in hotly.
But the physician in his own turn too interrupted. “That you and Crossland have given him every possible chance, done your best, and done it generously? I am sure of that, sir. But the thing is very difficult. No ailment, except insanity, is less understood, or more persistently bungled—by doctors, the best of them,” he added quickly.
The Colonel smiled grimly. “But you wouldn’t bungle it?”
“God knows,” Dr. Traherne said humbly. “I’d try not.”
“Isn’t it hopeless always?”
“Not always. Even insanity is healed, fairly often, in spite of criminally wrong treatment.”
“You think he inherited it?”
“I think he inherited a tendency, perhaps, or—more probably a possibility. I do not believe that it is congenital. I do not for one moment believe that that poor lady drank until something drove her to it—after her marriage, and probably after her boy’s birth. And I think it very likely that Tony Crespin took his first drink too much when he heard of his mother’s death.”
“And the women? Inherited from the other side, I suppose?”