'Well,' said Conroy, twisting in the chair, 'I'm no musician, but
suppose you were a violin-string--vibrating--and some one put his finger
on you? As if a finger were put on the naked soul! Awful!'

'So's indigestion--so's nightmare--while it lasts.'

'But the horror afterwards knocks me out for days. And the waiting for
it ... and then this drug habit! It can't go on!' He shook as he spoke,
and the chair creaked.

'My dear fellow,' said the doctor, 'when you're older you'll know what
burdens the best of us carry. A fox to every Spartan.'

'That doesn't help _me_. I can't! I can't!' cried Conroy, and burst into
tears.

'Don't apologise,' said Gilbert, when the paroxysm ended. 'I'm used to
people coming a little--unstuck in this room.'

'It's those tabloids!' Conroy stamped his foot feebly as he blew his
nose. 'They've knocked me out. I used to be fit once. Oh, I've tried
exercise and everything. But--if one sits down for a minute when it's
due--even at four in the morning--it runs up behind one.'

'Ye-es. Many things come in the quiet of the morning. You always know
when the visitation is due?'

'What would I give not to be sure!' he sobbed.

'We'll put that aside for the moment. I'm thinking of a case where what