"That is, I inhabit other lodgings. She is at the old place. I am with a medical man in Bloomsbury, you know. It was necessary for me to be near him, and six months ago I went. Lizzie acquiesced in that; the matter was obvious. I sometimes go to see her; staying, perhaps, from Saturday to Monday, and come away cursing myself." "Don't. _Don't_, Bevere." "She has taken to drink," he whispered, biting his agitated lips. "For pretty near two years now she has not been a day sober. As Heaven hears me, I believe _not one day_. You may judge what I've had to bear." "Could nothing be done?" "I tried to do it, Johnny. I coaxed, persuaded, threatened her by turns, but she would not leave it off. For four months in the autumn of last year, I did not let a drop of anything come into the house; drinking water myself all the while--for her sake. It was of no use: she'd go out and get it: every public-house in the place knows her. I'd come home from the hospital in the evening and find her raving and rushing about the rooms like a mad woman, or else lying incapable on the bed. Believe me, I tried all I could to keep her straight; and Mrs. Dyke, a good, motherly woman, you remember, did her best to help me; but she was too much for both of us, the demon of drink had laid too fast hold of her." "Does she come bothering you at your new lodgings?" "She doesn't know where to come," replied Bevere; "I should not dare to tell her. She thinks I am in the doctor's house, and she does not know where that is. I have told her, and her Aunt Dyke has told her, that if ever she attempts to come after me there, I shall stop her allowance. Scott--you remember Richard Scott!" "Of course." "Well, Scott lives now near the Bell-and-Clapper: he is with a surgeon there. Scott goes to see her for me once a-week, or so, and brings me news of her. I declare to you, Johnny Ludlow, that when I first catch sight of his face I turn to a cold shiver, dreading what he may have to say. And you talk about pulling up! With such a wife as that, one is thankful to drown care once in a way." "I--I suppose, Roger, nothing about her has ever come out _here_?" He started up, his face on fire. "Johnny, lad, if it came out here--to my mother--to all of them--I should die. Say no more. The case is hopeless, and I am hopeless with it." Any way, it seemed hopeless to talk further then, and I took up my candle. "Just one more word, Roger: Does Lizzie know you have come down here? She might follow you." His face took a look of terror. The bare idea scared him. "I say, don't you invent impossible horrors," gasped he. "She _couldn't_ come; she has never heard of the place in connection with me. She has never heard anything about my people, or where they live, or don't live, or whether I have any. Good-night." "Good-night, Roger." III.