“There is only one course open for me,” I told him soberly. “I must turn you over to the police. Things like this must be stopped.”
He pulled his hands away from his face and stared at me, his eyes fired with dread. “No, no!” he screamed. “Don’t give me away. Please, in the name of God, don’t give me away! I am sick, I tell you! I am not responsible!”
A feeling of helpless pity went through me as he sank to his knees in hysterical imploration, but I steeled myself against him. The man was mad and dangerous. He must be stamped out without mercy.
“There are asylums——” I began.
“You cannot!” he cried. “You know what they do in asylums. I know! Please help me. I am not responsible. It is the book—the book.”
“What book?”
“Drukker—that diary! Can’t you see what it has done to me? It’s eaten into my brain until I am mad. It’s driven me like a slave until I have no other bidding. It taught me how to do these things. It makes me do them.”
I pulled him to his feet and shook him unmercifully. He was crying and retching, a pitiable and horrible sight to look upon.
“You are talking irrationally,” I cried. “I am your friend and I want to help you, but my first duty is the public welfare. There are six human heads buried in your cellar. There must be no more.”
“No more?” he laughed shrilly and threw up both his hands to indicate the count of ten. “No more, you say? There will be ten more before it stops. Ten more! That’s what the book says!”