I poured him a dose and he drank it. Then he dropped back on the cushions again, watching me. I drew a chair up, but on second thought remained standing. "Well, Mr. Lessing," I said, "I don't know that I'm able to do anything more for you under the present circumstances. If you feel like wanting me you know where to send." "What are you in a hurry for?" "I am in no hurry." "Then sit down." "If you think there is anything to be gained." I sat down. I had dealt with his type before, and I waited. "Well?" he said. "You must know, my good fellow, that there's no use calling a medical man in to tell this kind of nonsense! I'm not a fool." "Then there," he answered, "you differ most charmingly from old Lennox!" I could no more be angry with him than with a sick child. "No dog made these scratches!" "I said you might call it a dog," he reminded me. "I might call it an ourang-outang and be nearer the mark! Am I to conclude that you keep a menagerie in your house, Mr. Lessing?" "Suppose I told you I did it myself?" "I should call you a liar," I said. "I have seen your hands." "Old Lennox swore I did. I told you he was a fool." "We'll drop the scratches," I said, walking to the window. "I don't know that it really matters if you choose to tell me they were done by a tame mud-turtle in the back yard. But one or two things you'll have to stop if I'm looking after you." "Such as?" "You want sleep, man! You look as if you hadn't seen bed for a week." "I sleep in the daytime. I have to work at night." "What--photography?" "Chemistry ... of sorts." "Chemistry doesn't have to be done at night, of necessity," I answered. "You're overworked and you're using yourself up. You know you've hardly a whole nerve left in your body at this moment." "I've plenty in my shoulder," he returned drily, and I smiled involuntarily as our eyes met. There was a fascination in the man, despite his eccentricity, his absurd persistence in what seemed to be a tissue of childish and reasonless lies, to which I held no clue. "That won't hurt you long. I'll look in again tomorrow." I wheeled on him abruptly, of purpose. "How long have you been taking morphia?" I expected denial. Instead his eyes merely narrowed, appreciatively. "A year, more or less. I take it when I can't sleep." "Lately?" "Not for several weeks." "Yes, you have," I thought. Aloud I said: "I'll make you up something else, for a change. Can you sleep now?" "I'll have a try." "Better get to bed." "I sleep better here," he said, and without more ado turned over with his face to the wall. I waited a moment, but he took no further notice of my presence, and I went out.