"Those drops you gave me are magical, Santoris!"—he said—"I wish you'd let me have a supply!"
Santoris stood looking down upon him kindly.
"It would not be safe for you,"—he answered—"The remedy is a sovereign one if used very rarely, and with extreme caution, but in uninstructed hands it is dangerous. Its work is to stimulate certain cells—at the same time (like all things taken in excess) it can destroy them. Moreover, it would not agree with Dr. Brayle's medicines."
"You really and truly think Brayle an impostor?"
"Impostor is a strong word! No!—I will give him credit for believing in himself up to a certain point. But of course he knows that the so-called 'electric' treatment he is giving to your daughter is perfectly worthless, just as he knows that she is not really ill."
"Not really ill!"
Mr. Harland almost bounced up in his chair, while I felt a secret thrill of satisfaction. "Why, she's been a miserable, querulous invalid for years—"
"Since she broke off her engagement to a worthless rascal"—said
Santoris, calmly. "You see, I know all about it."
I listened, astonished. How did he know, how could he know, the intimate details of a life like Catherine's which could scarcely be of interest to a man such as he was?
"Your daughter's trouble is written on her face"—he went on—"Warped affections, slain desires, disappointed hopes,—and neither the strength nor the will to turn these troubles to blessings. Therefore they resemble an army of malarious germs which are eating away her moral fibre. Brayle knows that what she needs is the belief that someone has an interest not only in her, but in the particularly morbid view she has taught herself to take of life. He is actively showing that interest. The rest is easy,—and will be easier when—well!—when you are gone."