“I really cannot see that my feeling toward her matters in the slightest degree,” said Armour evasively. “By the way, now you are here, will you prescribe something for me? I am having insomnia again.”
“Go to bed early; eat more; and when you leave your office leave your business behind you, not take it home and work half the night in your library,” and Dr. Camperdown surveyed his patient in great moodiness. “I won’t give you powders, so you needn’t ask me. You’re breaking natural laws and have been for years. There’ll be a collapse some day.”
Mr. Armour’s quiet self-possession did not leave him, and he returned his friend’s gaze with tranquil eyes.
Something in his glance reminded Camperdown of Stargarde, and a softer mood came over him. “Stanton,” he said, and he stretched one hand across the table, “what is the matter with you?”
Mr. Armour measured him with a glance of calm surprise, and made no answer.
“What is it that happened,” Camperdown went on, “to freeze you, to turn you from a living man to a block of ice—what is it, Stanton?”
Again there was no reply, and his friend continued eagerly:
“You are alive; you eat, drink, sleep, and walk about, yet there is no joy in living. Have you ever heard of the drug ‘curare’?”
Armour shook his head.
“It is much in favor with certain members of my fraternity. They use it, as they say, in the interests of science and for the benefit of mankind. Animals to whom it is administered cannot move or cry out, but their nerves are rendered acutely and intensely sensitive. Sometimes,” softly, “I fancy that you have been curarized, Stanton.”