"You've a stiff enough fight before you," said the doctor, "without such a handicap as that."
"You won't help me?"
The doctor walked up and down his hearthrug, and then delivered himself with an extended hand and waggling fingers.
"I wouldn't if I could. For your good I wouldn't. And even if I would I couldn't, for I don't know the drug. One of his infernal brews, no doubt. Something—accidental. It's lost—for good—for your good, anyhow...."
§ 2
Scrope halted outside the stucco portals of the doctor's house. He hesitated whether he should turn to the east or the west.
"That door closes," he said. "There's no getting back that way."...
He stood for a time on the kerb. He turned at last towards Park Lane and Hyde Park. He walked along thoughtfully, inattentively steering a course for his new home in Pembury Road, Notting Hill.
§ 3
At the outset of this new phase in Scrope's life that had followed the crisis of the confirmation service, every-
