he poet. "I assure you that I have no craving whatever now! I feel that I shall never touch the abominable stuff again."
"Now you are talking like a child, mon ami! I would wager that you will require treatment again and again--and on each occasion it will be more difficult. One day your memory will serve you not at all! Ah, you shudder? Your mind recoils from such a horror? Well, be discreet, then, and remain until we have done more for you."
His gaze was so kindly behind his glasses, his tone was so sympathetic, that de Fronsac stood, at a loss for a reply.
"Oh, monsieur," he began--and blessed the telephone bell for interrupting them.
"Allo! Allo!" cried the doctor. "Yes, it is I, Blanchard himself!" He listened, and started violently. "What?" His face turned crimson with chagrin. "Impossible!"
As if the weight of the receiver wearied his right hand, he took it in his left. His glance met de Fronsac's, and there was something new in it that de Fronsac di