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one of a dozen doctors who would jump at the chance to do the job?"
    "But, lover! I-" Miss Kenfield hesitated, and her eyes shifted from the doctor's for the merest fraction of a second. Then, they met his again; brimming with love and trust, wide with innocent honesty. "But why wouldn't I come to you, lover? Why should I go to anyone else when I have my own dearest, darling Murph to-"
    Doctor Murphy said a single obscene word, and walked out, slamming the door as Susan Kenfield's endearments changed suddenly to profane yells of reproach.
    She was lying; well, not exactly lying, perhaps, but covering up something. Holding back on the facts. That was obvious. But it was also obvious that now was not the moment to get the truth out of her. It would take more time than he had to give at this hour of the day.
    He entered the dining room, drew back a chair and sat down at the table and looked at the four patients present.

6
    Jeff Sloan, the advertising man, was there, looking decidedly wan and dabbling disinterestedly at his food. Then there was Bernie Edmonds, prematurely gray, preternaturally youthful-somehow spruce and smart-appearing even in bathrobe and pajamas. Not so many years ago, Bernie had won the Pulitzer Prize for international reporting. Not so many years ago, he had been managing editor of a leading New York newspaper, and the author of two best-selling books on world affairs. Now, he was a part-time rewrite man on one of the Los Angeles papers, and there was every indication that he was about to be severed from that position.
    Seated on Bernie's right, were the twin Holcomb brothers, John and Gerald. Fifty-ish, plump-ish, bald-ish, the brothers Holcomb owned one of the more successful Hollywood literary agencies-far too successful, in Doctor Murphy's opinion, for their own good. They had become leaders in the field back in the early days of pictures, and long before their alcoholism had reached the point of incapacitating them, the functions of the agency had been delegated to employees whose high pay and equally high degree of competence were legends in the industry. Now G. & J. Holcomb, Inc. (Literary Properties) maintained branch offices in the major cities of the world; and Gerald and John Holcomb-with a six-figure income and no demands on their time-maintained more or less permanent living quarters in El Healtho Sanitarium.
    They had been released, after ten days of treatment, early in the current week. Last night, after an absence of less than forty-eight hours, they had returned. Hopelessly, helplessly drunk. Sodden to the gills.
    Logically, they should not have been able to get out of bed this morning. They should have been too hung-over and shaky and sick to budge from their room. Yet here they were, feeling quite chipper apparently, and they had actually eaten a considerable part of their breakfast.
    Doctor Murphy could only account for their conduct in one way. Turning his head slightly, he called to Rufus.
    "Yes, suh?"
    "Our friends here"-Doc nodded to the Holcombs- "have some whiskey hidden in their room. See if you can find it."
    "Yes, suh."
    "Did you hear the man, brother? Whiskey in our room! Now, why would he think that?" It was John Holcomb.
    "Why, indeed?" said Gerald Holcomb. "A very rash, impulsive man, if you ask my opinion. Pay him no mind, brother."
    "There's something in the atmosphere here," said Bernie Edmonds. "It makes the best of us jumpy. I've noticed it in myself, you know; seem to be very nervous and shaky every time I come here…"
    He and the brothers Holcomb discussed this nominal phenomenon, gravely, with Jeff Sloan throwing in an occasional dead-pan gibe.
    Doctor Murphy suddenly shoved back his plate. "Why do you do it?" he said. "That's what I don't get- why the hell you do it! You come here to stop drinking, because you've drunk so much you're goddam near dead. And yet you spend all the time you're in here trying to get a drink. Why? I'm damned if I get it!"
    Bernie Edmonds