"You give my woman morpheean." There was a hideous edged intonation in
the word, like the whine of some plaintive and dangerous animal.

"My friend!" The Professor's hand went forth in repressive deprecation.
"We physicians give what seems to us best, in these cases."

"A reg'lar doctor from Burnham seen her," pursued the Hardscrabbler, in
the same thin wail, moving nearer, but not again raising his eyes to the
other's face. Instead, his gaze seemed fixed upon the man's shining
expanse of waistcoat. "He said you doped her with the morpheean you give
her."

"So your chickens come home to roost, Professor," said the stranger, in
a half-voice.

"Impossible," declared the Professor, addressing the Hardscrabbler. "You
misunderstood him."

"They took my woman away. They took her to the 'sylum."

Foreboding peril, the people nearest the uncouth visitor had drawn away.
Only the stranger held his ground; more than held it, indeed, for he
edged almost imperceptibly nearer. He had noticed a fleck of red on the
matted beard, where the lip had been bitten into. Also he saw that the
Professor, whose gaze had so timorously shifted from his, was intent,
recognizing danger; intent, and unafraid before the threat.

"She used to cry fer it, my woman. Cry fer the morpheean like a baby."
He sagged a step forward. "She don't haff to cry no more. She's dead."