"It is pleasant here, is it not?" he said, with a sigh, telling himself that he must have taken a bigger "dose" of that brandy than was prudent at this juncture, for it seemed to have affected his speech. His tongue was not so ready in its compliance as usual, and his eyes felt stiff, his eyelids heavy. "Perhaps it was running upstairs so fast, not knowing what she might not be up to," he thought, remembering a caution given him by a doctor that his heart was weak--a timely warning he had derided at the time, but which often crossed his mind when he "felt queer." "Yes, it is very nice," said Joan, nerving herself to act--to conceal her violent loathing of him. "But as you like plenty of air about you, why not do as I suggest? Let us start in a steamer--a sailing vessel if you please--so that all trace of us is lost for a time, and uncle and aunt will not be able to imagine what has become of me." She talked away, pitching her voice in a slumberous, monotonous tone, as she had learnt to do from a nurse, when Lady Thorne had a serious and tedious illness after her first year with them as their adopted daughter. The terror of the crisis, the tremendous issues depending upon whether the brandy she had drugged would send Victor to sleep and allow of her stealing her letters from that desk, lent her eloquence. She painted her uncle and aunt’s state of mind when they would find her flown, in vivid colours--she held out the prospect of unlimited wealth they two would eventually enjoy--all to gain time until the morphia should hold him powerless. It was a big dose he had taken, she hopefully thought, even were he one of those unhappy mortals addicted to the use or abuse of narcotics. And as she talked on and on, she stealthily watched his face, his eyes. "That is all--very fine--and large, as they say," he vulgarly returned--and wondered in a vague, stupefied way why his voice sounded so far off--an echo of itself. "But--but--well, I--like--Paris--Paris--d’ye understand--Paris--you fool--what ’yer starin’--at--? Can’t ye get--me--some--no, no--water--water--" Something heavy was gathering in his chest. He felt breathless. He tried to push her away, but he could not move. She jumped up, startled by his pallor, his sunken look--the gathering purple round his eyes. His nose stood out sharply from his face. She poured the drugged brandy into her untouched glass of the spirit, and filling the empty glass with water, brought it to him. He seemed to squint curiously at it, but allowed her to hold it to his lips. He swallowed a little, but it trickled from his mouth. What was this horrid feeling--this weight--powerlessness?--he asked himself--stupidly--then he thought suddenly of Vera, and the dread of Joan’s being found with him by her brought a temporary rally from the strange, helpless drowsiness which had him in its grip. "Go--go! Now! You--mustn’t be found here--d’ye hear me? Go!" he spluttered.