"Ah! that's where you make a mistake," said Cochrane. "There may not be an atom of truth in the thing which is the cause of your feeling most strongly. Suppose, for instance, a lot of your friends entered into a conspiracy to play a practical joke on you, had you arrested, got you convicted of murder, and condemned to be hung, with such realism and completeness that you actually believed it was going to happen. You would be terrified, agonised, and your terror and agony would be the realest thing in the world to you. But it would be all founded on a lie--on a thing that didn't exist. And your craving is founded on a lie--such a stupid lie, too, believe me. As if evil has any power compared with good!" Thurso thought this illustration rather well-chosen, but he was a little tired, a little impatient. Also, the mention of his craving seemed to have stirred it into activity again. He began to wonder if there was any chemist's shop near. They had passed one on their drive--"ride" Cochrane called it--but that was a couple of miles off.... And the thought made him the more impatient. "Excuse me," he said, "but I am not a Christian Scientist, and the method you employ doesn't interest me, since I do not believe in it. It is right for me to tell you that; I only came here because I felt I owed it to--to others to do anything that was suggested." Cochrane laughed with serene good-humour, though Thurso's tone had not been very courteous. "Oh, we'll soon alter all that," he said, "and I am telling you a little about the treatment, in order that you may work with me, give me the help the ordinary patient gives his doctor." "I suppose I'm pretty bad," he observed. "I should just think you were. Why, you are all wrapped up in error! Have you ever unwound a rubber-covered golf ball? There are yards and yards of india-rubber string, and you think it's going on for ever. But at the centre there is a core. And there is a core in you too. But we've got to unwind the error in order to get at it." Thurso got up; he was feeling every moment more fidgety and impatient. He was beginning to want the drug most terribly; his craving was growing with mushroom-like rapidity. Yet while Cochrane was there he felt that his will to get well, his desire to be free, was keen also. And that gave him an impulse of honesty. "I tell you this, too," he said: "I'm longing for the drug most frightfully now. Ah, help me!" he cried in a sudden wail of appeal, "for I know what I shall do when you are gone." "Yes, tell me that," said Cochrane; and the wail of the voice told him that true impulse still existed, whatever Thurso's own forecast was.