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“Your puling sentiments sicken me! Resume the treatment.”
    I refused. “I have applied all my knowledge, all my art, to your affliction,” I assured him. “To resume the treatment would be idle and foolish, for—as you have divined—the condition is a product of your own mind.”
    â€œAt dinner last night,” countered Sardonicus, “we spoke of the character of Macbeth. Do you not remember the words he addressed to
his
doctor?—
    Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas’d;
    Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow;
    Raze out the written troubles of the brain;
    And with some sweet oblivious antidote
    Cleanse the stuff’d bosom of the perilous stuff
    Which weighs upon the heart?
    â€œI remember them,” I said; “and I remember, as well, the doctor’s reply: ‘
Therein the patient must minister to himself
.’” I arose and started for the door.
    â€œOne moment, Sir Robert,” he said. I turned. “Forgive my precipitate outburst a moment ago. However, the mental nature of my affliction notwithstanding, and even though this mode of treatment has failed, surely there are other treatments?”
    â€œNone,” I said, “that have been sufficiently tested. None I would venture to use upon a human body.”
    â€œAh!” he cried. “Then other treatments do exist!”
    I shrugged. “Think not of them, sir. They are at present unavailable to you.” I pitied him, and added: “I am sorry.”
    â€œDoctor!” he said; “I implore you to use whatever treatments exist, be they ever so untried!”
    â€œThey are fraught with danger,” I said.
    â€œDanger?” He laughed. “Danger of what? Of disfigurement? Surely no man has ever been more disfigured than I! Of death? I am willing to gamble my life!”
    â€œ
I
am not willing to gamble your life,” I said. “All lives are precious. Even yours.”
    â€œSir Robert, I will pay you a thousand pounds.”
    â€œThis is not a question of money.”
    â€œFive thousand pounds, Sir Robert,
ten
thousand!”
    â€œNo.”
    He sank onto the couch. “Very well,” he said. “Then I will offer you the ultimate inducement.”
    â€œWere it a million pounds,” I said, “you could not sway me.”
    â€œThe inducement I speak of,” he said, “is not money. Will you hear?”
    I sat down. “Speak, sir,” I said, “since that is your wish. But nothing will persuade me to use a treatment that might cost you your life.”
    â€œSir Robert,” he said, after a pause, “yestereve, when I came down to meet you for the first time, I heard happy sounds in the salon. You were singing a charming melody with my wife. Later, I could not help but notice the character of your glances toward her . . .”
    â€œThey were not reciprocated, sir,” I told him, “and herewith I offer you a most abject apology for my unbecoming conduct.”
    â€œYou obscure my point,” he said. “You are a friend of hers, from the old days in London; at that period, you felt an ardent affection for her, I would guess. This is not surprising; for she is a lady whose face and form promise voluptuous delights and yet a lady whose manner is most decorous and correct. I would guess further: that your ardour has not diminished over the years; that at the sight of her, the embers have burst into a flame. No, sir, hear me out. What would you say, Sir Robert, were I to tell you that you may quench that flame?”
    I frowned. “Your meaning, sir?—”
    â€œMust I speak even more plainly? I am offering you a golden opportunity to requite the love that burns in your heart. To requite it in a single night, if that will suffice you, or over an extended period of weeks, months; a year, if you will; as long as you need—”
    â€œScoundrel!” I roared, leaping up.
    He heeded