"I do. I also know how it began, and when,—how it has progressed, and how it will end. I know, too, how it can be checked—cut off in its development, and utterly destroyed,—but the cure would depend on yourself more than on Dr. Brayle or any other physician. At present no good is being done and much harm. For instance, you are in pain now?"
"I am—but how can you tell?"
"By the small, almost imperceptible lines on your face which contract quite unconsciously to yourself. I can stop that dreary suffering at once for you, if you will let me."
"Oh, I will 'let' you, certainly!" and Mr. Harland smiled incredulously,—"But I think you over-estimate your abilities."
"I was never a boaster,"—replied Santoris, cheerfully—"But you shall keep whatever opinion you like of me." And he drew from his pocket a tiny crystal phial set in a sheath of gold. "A touch of this in your glass of wine will make you feel a new man."
We watched him with strained attention as he carefully allowed two small drops of liquid, bright and clear as dew to fall one after the other into Mr. Harland's glass.
"Now,"—he continued—"drink without fear, and say good-bye to all pain for at least forty-eight hours."
With a docility quite unusual to him Mr. Harland obeyed.
"May I go on smoking?" he asked.
"You may."