George Allan England

“ Please don't misunderstand me— Wingate almost barked an oath. Dark with rage, he ripped the letter into shreds and shot them into the basket. He sat there gnawing his nails, cursing.
“Money, always money!” he wheezed. “Three letters—two of 'em begging, and one about losing money. Damn money! Damn everything!”
He sprang up and fell to pacing the floor like a madman; but his heart would not stand the strain. He grew faint and dizzy, and felt himself about to collapse. Morphine! He must have another tablet. In every strain or crisis, the addict invariably turns to his drug, his panacea. ”

“ That letter, too, whisked into the basket, in a shower of fragments.
“If I was only down there at Santa Maria,” he said bitterly, “I could pull that proposition out of the fire in no time. God, wish I was there!” He laughed. “Might as well wish I was on the moon, and be done with it!”
The third letter gave him an agonizing start. He knew that writing on the envelope. It was his wife's!
Why had he grown indifferent to that woman? Why had he so despitefully used her? Why, save that the drug had bred in him a cruel and perverse heart?
Once he had loved her as few men love their wives. ”

“ When Wingate would have resisted, Jaccard held him as if he had been a child, and took the tablets by force. Not much force was needed, at that. Wingate felt himself helpless in those iron hands.
“Here, now—here's the money that doesn't belong to me—not yet,” said Jaccard. “Everything is honest and above-board. ”