Caccia he
good, too. You want go there?"

Chesney hesitated an instant; the blood rushed to his face, then ebbed.

"Yes. Drive there," he said, throwing himself back against the greasy
seat and clenching his teeth. A pang like the throb of a red-hot piston
had shot from the joint of his ankle to his hip. His muscles drew with
the anguish of it.

"Where I must go--Lavatelli or Caccia?" asked the vetturino.

"There," said Chesney, indicating the shop opposite. Somewhere behind
those gilt-lettered windows was relief ready to his hand. He had
determined very seriously to tamper no more with morphia, but agony such
as he was enduring at this moment certainly justified him in making an
exception to his self-imposed rule. Besides, he was no sottish weakling,
who could not trust himself to take one moderate dose of morphia without
risking the danger of a renewal of the habit. Of course, old Carfew
would howl blue ruin at the mere idea. Sophy would be horrified. Anne
Harding would lash him with her prickly tongue.... Well, thank the Lord,
there was no need of taking them into his confidence! One, or perhaps
two, moderate doses--that was all. He could take it by mouth. He would
go to bed--sleep it off. No one would be the wiser. But he would be
relieved of this maddening "tooth-ache" in his leg. He might even try
that old Italian prig's remedy, afterwards--do the thing up thoroughly
while he was about it.

As the vetturino drove across the street, Chesney got out his
pocketbook. His fingers slid as from habit to a little flap on the
inside of the case. As he felt the paper that he was in search of under
his fingers, a queer thrill ran through him. He started, flushing. This
thrill had been one of exultation; at the same time he had a sense of
guilt. What rot! He was a responsible being--independent--he had a
brain. What was it for if not to guide him in just such cases as this?
He had endured this grinding pain for a week now--had only slept in
wretched snatches for seven whole nights. Why should he feel that
absurd, little-boy sense of guilt because he was going to provide
himself with a good night's rest?

When the man drew up before the chemist's shop, Chesney sat for a
moment reading over the prescription in his hand. Yes, it was
perfectly preserved--quite legible. It was a prescription for soluble
tablets of morphia for hypodermic use--one grain of morphia, one
one-hundred-and-fiftieth of a grain of atropine. The atro