'It's those tabloids!' Conroy stamped his foot feebly as he blew his nose. 'They've knocked me out. I used to be fit once. Oh, I've tried exercise and everything. But--if one sits down for a minute when it's due--even at four in the morning--it runs up behind one.'
'Ye-es. Many things come in the quiet of the morning. You always know when the visitation is due?'
'What would I give not to be sure!' he sobbed.
'We'll put that aside for the moment. I'm thinking of a case where what we'll call anæmia of the brain was masked (I don't say cured) by vibration. He couldn't sleep, or thought he couldn't, but a steamer voyage and the thump of the screw--'
'A steamer? After what I've told you!' Conroy almost shrieked. 'I'd sooner ...'
'Of course not a steamer in your case, but a long railway journey the next time you think it will trouble you. It sounds absurd, but--'
'I'd try anything. I nearly have,' Conroy sighed.
'Nonsense! I've given you a tonic that will clear that notion from your head. Give the train a chance, and don't begin the journey by bucking yourself up with tabloids. Take them along, but hold them in reserve--in reserve.'
'D'you think I've self-control enough, after what you've heard?' said Conroy.
Dr. Gilbert smiled. 'Yes. After what I've seen,' he glanced round the room, 'I have no hesitation in saying you have quite as much self-control as many other people. I'll write you later about your journey. Meantime, the tonic,' and he gave some general directions before Conroy left.