O great Caliph!"

"The Paradise of Morphia may begin with houris," said Carfew dryly, "but
it ends with horrors--sexless horrors. I would not jeer at sexlessness,
if I were you. A fellow-feeling should make you kind."

Fury made Cecil natural if not kind.

"What the hell are you after, you damned charlatan?" he demanded
savagely.

"I? I am after making myself clear, as an Irishman would say. I only
mean to warn you that the little instrument you prize so much--the
hypodermic syringe when used in connection with morphia--produces, in
the end, the unfortunate condition which you so deride. Manhood, in
every sense of the word, goes down before morphia, Mr. Chesney. I have
promised your mother and Dr. Bellamy to put things plainly to you.
Perhaps a natural curiosity as to the scientific aspect of your habit
may induce you to listen."

This was in fact the case. Carfew's words, while enraging Cecil, had
given him pause. He thrust out a sullen lip, glowering at the great man,
like Minotaur at one who has just given the yearly boat-load of virgins
a shove seaward.

"Well, damn it-- I admit a 'low curiosity.' Get on, can't you?"

Carfew "got on." Coolly and methodically, as though unrolling a neatly
illustrated script before the other's eyes, he presented to him a clear,
detailed picture of the morphinomaniac's descent of Avernus.

"Little by little, all will go but that one, ever-increasing desire," he
concluded; "honour first, then sex, then all human sympathy--then, a
small matter perhaps, after these others, but to a well-bred man
sufficiently unpleasant to contemplate--personal cleanliness. You will
become filthy--you will not care. One thing alone of heaven and earth
will be left you--the lust for morphia and its parasite--alcohol. So
these two were available, you might stink in the nostrils of God and
man--you would be quite indifferent. I remember," he broke off on
another tone, seeming not to see the dull, unwilling look of arrestment,
as it were, on Chesney's face, "I remember, years ago, reading a clever
book by Knatchbull-Hugessen, a little volume of fairy-tales. Among these
tales was one called 'Skitzland.' I rather suspect that he was having a
fling at us specialists in that sketch; but then there are those who
specialise on other things than science--morphia, for instance. To
Skitzland were supposed to go those who had sacrificed all senses to
one. A man in Skitzland would find himself only a huge ear, o