"Stuff? What stuff?"
"When I was at your place yesterday I saw a decanter lying on the table; some of the contents had been spilled. I dipped my finger into the stuff and tasted it. It was ether. When women of your temperament take to drinking ether, that's an end of them."
"But I've got to drink it!--I've got to! I never touch it unless I'm forced! Luker, if I didn't, sometimes, I should go stark, staring mad."
"Then you'll go stark, staring mad. Ether's a royal road to madness for such as you. Better stick to gin."
"Gin!--gin's no good; a barrelful would be no good when I'm like that."
"I see--that's the point you've got to." He was eyeing her intently. "Is there any particular reason why you should be afraid of going into the room where that man died?"
She became instantly conscious of the keenness of his scrutiny, perceiving that in it there was a new quality. Her manner changed.
"Any particular reason? No; there's only the general reason that I'm all mops and brooms; that I start at shadows. Besides, I'm going into it, and you're going with me."
"Am I? That's news."
"Luker, if you'll come with me to Pitmuir, and stick to me while I find Cuthbert Grahame's money, I'll give you five hundred pounds."