'So's indigestion—so's nightmare—while it lasts.'
'But the horror afterwards knocks me out for days. And the waiting for it . . . and then this drug habit! It can't go on!' He shook as he spoke, and the chair creaked.
'My dear fellow,' said the doctor, 'when you're older you'll know what burdens the best of us carry. A fox to every Spartan.'
'That doesn't help me. I can't! I can't!' cried Conroy, and burst into tears.
'Don't apologise,' said Gilbert, when the paroxysm ended. 'I'm used to people coming a little—unstuck in this room.'
'It's those tabloids!' Conroy stamped his foot feebly as he blew his nose. 'They've knocked me out. I used to be fit once. Oh, I've tried exercise and everything. But—if one sits down for a minute when it's due—even at four in the morning—it runs up behind one.'
'Ye-es. Many things come in the quiet of the morning. You always know when the visitation is due?'
'What would I give not to be sure!' he sobbed.
'We'll put that aside for the moment. I'm thinking of a case where what we'll call anæmia of the brain was masked (I don't say cured) by vibration. He couldn't sleep, or thought he couldn't, but a steamer voyage and the thump of the screw'
'A steamer? After what I've told you!' Conroy almost shrieked. 'I'd sooner . . .'
