He was somewhat sobered.  I said nothing, but I observed that the lamp was smoking, and I turned down the wick.  I was so self-conscious, so irresolute, so nonplussed, that in sheer awkwardness, like a girl at a party who does not know what to do with her hands, I pushed the revolver off the satchel, and idly unfastened the catch of the satchel.  Within it, among other things, was my sedative.  I, too, had fallen the victim of a habit.  For five years a bad sleeper, I had latterly developed into a very bad sleeper, and my sedative was accordingly strong.

A notion struck me.

‘Drink a little of this, my poor Diaz!’ I murmured.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘It will make you sleep,’ I said.

With a convulsive movement he clutched the bottle and uncorked it, and before I could interfere he had drunk nearly the whole of its contents.

‘Stop!’ I cried.  ‘You will kill yourself!’

‘What matter!’ he exclaimed; and staggered off to the darkness of the bedroom.

I followed him with the lamp, but he had already fallen on the bed, and seemed to be heavily asleep.  I shook him; he made no response.

‘At any cost he must he roused,’ I said aloud.  ’He must be forced to walk.’

There was a knocking at the outer door, low, discreet, and continuous.  It sounded to me like a deliverance.  Whoever might be there must aid me to waken Diaz.  I ran to the door, taking the key out of my pocket, and opened it.  A tall woman stood on the doormat.  It was the girl that I had glimpsed on the previous night in the large hat ascending the stairs with a man.  But now her bright golden head was uncovered, and she wore a blue peignoir, such as is sold ready made, with its lace and its ribbons, at all the big Paris shops.

We both hesitated.

‘Oh, pardon, madame,’ she said, in a thin, sweet voice in French.  ’I was at my door, and it seemed to me that I heard—­a revolver.  Nothing serious has passed, then?  Pardon, madame.’

‘Nothing, thank you.  You are very amiable, madame,’ I replied stiffly.

‘All my excuses, madame,’ said she, turning away.

‘No, no!’ I exclaimed.  ’I am wrong.  Do not go.  Someone is ill—­very ill.  If you would—­’

She entered.

‘Where?  What is it?’ she inquired.

‘He is in the bedroom—­here.’

We both spoke breathlessly, hurrying to the bedroom, after I had fetched the lamp.

‘Wounded?  He has done himself harm?  Ah!’

‘No,’ I said, ‘not that.’

And I explained to her that Diaz had taken at least six doses of my strong solution of trional.

I seized the lamp and held it aloft over the form of the sleeper, which lay on its side cross-wise, the feet projecting a little over the edge of the bed, the head bent forward and missing the pillow, the arms stretched out in front—­the very figure of abandoned and perfect unconsciousness.  And the girl and I stared at Diaz, our shoulders touching, in the kennel.