When Mary had awakened to find that her secret was discovered she had been like a mad thing.  There had been rage, tears, protestations, hysterical denials—­finally confession and anguished promises.  That she had never realised the reality of her danger, nor the extent of her servitude was plain.  It seemed easy enough to promise.  Esther and the doctor were making a terrible fuss about nothing, as usual.  She grew sulky under Callandar’s warnings and her fury knew no bounds when she found that certain of her hidden stores had been confiscated.  She demanded that the supply be left in her hands; was not her promise enough?

But all this was before she knew what denial meant, before she realised that the way back along the path she had trodden so easily was thick-set with suffering; that every backward inch must be fought for with agony and tears.  Then she had broken down altogether, had raved and pleaded.  The very knowledge of the depth to which she had fallen, threatened to send her deeper still.  Callandar soon realised that if she were to be saved it must be in spite of herself.  There were but two points of strength in her weak nature; one the newly awakened, yet capricious passion for himself, and the other that ruling terror of her life, which of all her inherent safeguards was the last to give way under the assaults of the drug, namely, “What will people say?” but neither of these, nor both of them together, could stand for a moment before the terrible appetite when once its craving was denied.

Twice she failed her helpers just when they were beginning to hope.  In her first search Esther had not exhausted the hiding places of the poison and, to retain the temptation by her, Mary had lied and lied again.  Twice when the crises of her desire had come upon her she had given way, helplessly, completely; and twice they had begun all over again.  The third time she had not been able to procure the drug, had been compelled to fight through on the decreasing dose which the doctor had allowed.

No wonder Esther shuddered when she thought of that night!  Yet at the time she had stood beside the moaning woman, white and firm, when even Callandar had staggered for a moment from the room.

Next morning they had taken heart of hope again.  Undoubtedly Mary had exhausted the supply, and the possibility of its being replenished seemed remote.  It was only a matter of time now; of care, of unremitting, yet gentle vigilance and Mary would be cured.  The bride could go to her husband, clean and in her right mind.  And Esther would be free.

Strangely enough, it was Mary herself who objected to a hastening of their remarriage.  Perhaps in spite of her inevitable deterioration there was that in her still which forbade her going to him as she was.  Perhaps it was only another and more obscure effect of the drug; some downward instinct which made her dread the putting of herself within the circle of her husband’s strength.  She would fight her fight outside.  Why?  Was it because she would conquer of herself, or because she did not really wish to conquer at all?