"Wife!" he exclaimed. "My wife!" and springing up out of the chair I saw him tower above me, clenched hands upflung, his comely features distorted and horribly suffused; then he lurched to the window and leaned, choking, from the lattice. Suddenly his bowed shoulders began to heave, and I heard him laugh in dreadful manner and when he turned his look was demoniac. "Egad, but you will have your joke, eh, Perry, and devilish funny--aye, devilish! My wife, says you--ha! ha! says I. You're drunk, says you--I am, says I--so I can laugh, d'ye see--" "Anthony!" I cried, rising from my chair. "O Anthony, here's more than drink--dear fellow, in God's name, what is it?" And I grasped at him with weak but insistent hands. For a moment he made as if to throw me off, then his long arm was about me, his head bowed upon my shoulder, and when he spoke his voice had lost its wild, mad ring. "D'ye think I like getting drunk, Perry? But there are worse things--madness and murder. A bullet would be quick, but I still have hope--sometimes--and death by drink is a slow business, so I've chosen death by drink--" "Why, Tony? What is the trouble? Is it--Barbara--your Loveliness?" "She has never been the same since she came back from abroad, Perry. Some secret trouble--all these weeks it has been getting worse--she has sometimes seemed afraid of me--of me, Perry! At last I taxed her with it--begged she'd confide in me. She told me there was nothing, laughed it off and I believed it, like a fool--but that night, Perry--that night, as she slept--and looking pure and holy as one of God's angels, she--cried on a name--a man's name. I woke her--questioned her, begged, implored, commanded--and still she laughed, but always with the fear in her eyes. And I know she lied! Then I took to watching her and she me--and so it went on until--there were times when I could have struck her--choked the truth out of her--O Perry! So I left her--went to London. Oh damnation, d'ye wonder I drink? Better drink myself to the devil than harm her--though drink will take a long time to kill me, I'm afraid--" "Drink never shall, Tony! There, sit down, old fellow, calm yourself, for by heaven I think you are making much out of little--" "Why did she lie to me?" "Are you sure she did?" "Certain!" "What do you propose to do?" "Go back to London." "Then I will accompany you." "Impossible; you're weak as a confounded rabbit!" "I'm stronger than I look; I've walked regularly in the garden these last three days. However, if you go to London, I go too." "Well, and if so--what could you do?" "Remind you that a gentleman must endure unflinchingly and suffer with unshaken fortitude." "Ha, would you preach at me?" "Day and night, if necessary." "Would you, begad!" "I would! Indeed I would make myself a pestilential nuisance to help my friend."