“You think he’s paying a big price for a broken potsherd? Well, he isn’t doing it for my sake!” Faunce sank back again in his seat, the spark of his half-smoked cigar dying out between his fingers. Then he turned his head quickly and fixed his haggard eyes on the doctor. “Have you seen my wife lately?”
Gerry shook his head.
“Not for some days—a week, I think.”
“I wrote to her, asking her to answer me herself. If she really wants a divorce, she shall have it; but I want her to answer me, and she hasn’t. I’ve been wondering if she ever got my letter.”
“You mean, you think the judge has kept it from her? He isn’t capable of that. He would give it to her in any case.”
“That’s what I thought; but he has insulted me, I can’t go to the house, and she hasn’t answered my letter.”
The doctor picked up an ivory paper-knife from the table and began to run it back and forth between his fingers.
“It would be natural enough, wouldn’t it, for any woman to expect you to come to the house and ask such a question as that in person?”
“You think I haven’t the courage?”
“I think you’re taking chloral to an extent that’ll soon send you on the long expedition. It’s a dangerous drug, young man. A bit too much, and you’ll travel the common road. Perhaps that’s your idea?”