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It _was_ the natural exhaustion consequent on the morbid
excitement caused by his cursed opiate.
"Brown," said Mrs. Archbold, "if Dr. Bailey prescribes again, let me
know. He shan't square _this_ patient with his certificates, whilst I am
here."
This was a shrewd, but uncharitable, speech of hers. Dr. Bailey was not
such a villain as that.
He was a less depraved, and more dangerous animal: he was a fool.
The farrago he had administered would have done an excited maniac no
good, of course, but no great harm. It was dangerous to a sane man: and
Alfred to the naked eye was a sane man. But then Bailey had no naked eye
left: he had been twenty years an M. D. The certificates of Wycherley and
Speers were the green spectacles he wore--very green ones--whenever he
looked at Alfred Hardie.
Perhaps in time he will forget those certificates, and, on his spectacles
dropping off, he will see Alfred is sane. If he does, he will publish him
as one of his most remarkable _cures._
Meanwhile the whole treatment of this ill-starred young gentleman
gravitated towards insanity.


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