"that the man who started that lie about drink making a fellow forget died the death of a dog. He deserved to, anyway, because it's one of the cruellest practical jokes ever perpetrated on the human race. I know, because I've tried it on, hard – and waked up sick to my marrow to remember what a disgusting ass I'd made of myself for all to behold." He stopped at Whitaker's side and dropped a hand on his shoulder. "Hugh," he said, "you're one of the best. Don't…"
Whatever he had meant to say, he left unfinished because of the return of the page with his Scotch; but he had said enough to let Whitaker understand that he knew about the Carstairs affair.
"That's all right," said Whitaker; "I'm not going to make a damn' fool of myself, but I am in a pretty bad way. Boy – "
"Hold on!" Peter interrupted. "You're not going to order another? What you've had is enough to galvanize a corpse."
"Barring the negligible difference of a few minutes or months, that's me," returned Whitaker. "But never mind, boy – run along."
"I'd like to know what you mean by that," Peter remarked, obviously worried.
"I mean that I'm practically a dead man – so near it that it makes no difference."
"The devil you say! What's the matter with you?"
"Ask Greyerson. I can't remember the name – it's too long – and I couldn't pronounce it if I did."
Peter's eyes narrowed. "What foolishness has Greyerson been putting into your head?" he demanded. "I've a good mind to go punch his – "
"It isn't his fault," Whitaker asserted. "It's my own – or rather, it's something in the nature of a posthumous gift from my progenitors; several of 'em died of it, and now it seems I must. Greyerson says so, at least, and when I didn't believe him he called in Hartt and Bushnell to hold my ante-mortem. They made it unanimous. If I'm uncommonly lucky I may live to see next Thanksgiving."
"Oh, shut up!" Peter exploded viciously. "You make me tired – you and your bone-headed M.D.'s!"
He worked himself into a comforting rage, damning the medical fraternity liberally for a gang of bloodthirsty assassins and threatening to commit assault and battery upon the person of Greyerson, though Whitaker did his best to make him understand that matters were what they were – irremediable.
"You won't find any higher authorities than Hartt and Bushnell," he said. "They are the court of last resort in such cases. When they hand down a decision, there's no come-back."
"You can't make me believe that," Peter insisted. "It just can't be so. A man like you, who's always lived clean… Why, look at your athletic record! Do you mean to tell me a fellow could hold a job as undisputed best all-round man in his class for four years, and all the time handicapped by a constitutional…? Oh, get out! Don't talk to me. I'm far more likely to be doing my bit beneath the daisies six months from now… I won't believe it!"
His big, red, generous fist described a large and inconclusive gesture of violence.
"Well," he growled finally, "grant all this – which I don't, not for one little minute – what do you mean to do?"
"I don't mind telling you," said Whitaker: "I don't know. Wish I did. Up to within the last few minutes I fully intended to cut the knot with my own knife. It's not reasonable to ask a man to sit still and watch himself go slowly to pieces…"
"No," said Stark, sitting down. "No," he admitted grudgingly; "but I'm glad you've given that up, because I'm right and all these fool doctors are wrong. You'll see. But…" He couldn't help being curious. "But why?"
"Well," Whitaker considered slowly – "it's Alice Carstairs. You know what she's done."
"You don't mean to say you're going – that you think there's any consideration due her?"
"Don't you?" Whitaker smiled wearily. "Perhaps you're right. I don't know. We won't discuss the ethics of the situation; right or wrong, I don't mean to shadow whatever happiness she has in store for her by ostentatiously snuffing myself out just now."
Peter gulped and succeeded in saying nothing. But he stared.
"At the same time," Whitaker resumed, "I don't think I can stand this sort of thing. I can't go round with my flesh creeping to hear the whisperings behind my back. I've got to do something – get away somewhere."
Abrupt inspiration sparked the imagination of Peter Stark, and he began to sputter with enthusiasm.
"I've got it!" he cried, jumping to his feet. "A sea trip's just the thing. Chances are, it'll turn the trick – bring you round all right-O, and prove what asses doctors are. What d'you say? Are you game for a sail? The Adventuress is laid up at New Bedford now, but I can have her put in commission within three days. We'll do it – we'll just light out, old man! We'll try that South Seas thing we've talked about so long. What d'you say?"
A warm light glowed in Whitaker's sunken eyes. He nodded slowly.
III
"MRS. MORTEN"
It was three in the morning before Peter Stark, having to the best of his endurance and judgment tired Whitaker out with talking, took his hat and his departure from Whitaker's bachelor rooms. He went with little misgiving; Whitaker was so weary that he would have to sleep before he could think and again realize his terror; and everything was arranged. Peter had telegraphed to have the Adventuress rushed into commission; they were to go aboard her the third day following. In the meantime, Whitaker would have little leisure in which to brood, the winding up of his affairs being counted upon to occupy him. Peter had his own affairs to look to, for that matter, but he was prepared to slight them if necessary, in order that Whitaker might not be left too much to himself…
Whitaker shut the hall door, when the elevator had taken Peter away, and turned back wearily into his living-room. It was three in the morning; his body ached with fatigue, his eyes were hot and aching in their sockets, and his mouth hot and parched with excess of smoking; yet he made no move toward his bedchamber. Insomnia was a diagnostic of his malady: a fact he hadn't mentioned to his friend. He had little wish to surrender his mind to the devils that haunt a wakeful pillow, especially now when he could feel the reaction setting in from the anodynous excitement of the last few hours. Peter Stark's whirlwind enthusiasm had temporarily swept him off his feet, and he had yielded to it, unresisting, selfish enough to want to be carried away against the wiser counsels of his intuition.
But now, alone, doubts beset him.
Picking his way across a floor littered with atlases, charts, maps and guide-books, he resumed his chair and pipe and with the aid of a copy of "The Wrecker" and a nightcap, strove to drug himself again with the fascination of the projected voyage. But the savour had gone out of it all. An hour before he had been able to distil a potent magic, thought obliterating, by sheer force of repetition of the names, Apia, Hawaii, Tahiti, Samoa… Now all their promise was an emptiness and a mockery. The book slipped unheeded from his grasp; his pipe grew cold between his teeth; his eyes burned like lamps in their deep hollows, with their steady and undeviating glare…
Dawn-dusk filled the high windows with violet light before he moved.
He rose, went to the bath-room and took a bottle of chloral from the medicine-closet. He wondered at the steadiness of the hand that measured out the prescribed dose – no more, no less. He wondered at the strength of will which enabled him to take no more. There was enough in the bottle to purchase him eternity.
What
