“When it finally became too much for me, I had to come to you. Up here— away from every one — well, it’s the only place I can talk, and you’re the only man to whom I can talk!”
DOCTOR PALERMO rested languidly in his chair. He made no effort to hurry Chatham in his discourse. That fact seemed to encourage the visitor.
Well did he know Palermo’s reputation. As an analyst of mental disorders, none could compare with this remarkable physician. Doctor Palermo specialized in psychoanalysis alone.
All his time not devoted to consultations, he spent in his experimental laboratory, here on this fortieth floor. Chatham knew of the laboratory; yet he had never entered it, nor had he ever known Doctor Palermo to admit any one, not even a close friend.
“I’ll have to tell you the whole story,” said Chatham. His words were coming freely now. “It goes back two months — when I was in Florida. Just before Lloyd Harriman committed suicide. You knew Lloyd Harriman, didn’t you, doctor?”
The doctor nodded. “But not professionally. If I had—”
“Perhaps he wouldn’t have killed himself,” supplied Chatham.
“Well, doctor, that’s exactly why I came to you. I am experiencing the same ordeal that Harriman went through.
“I’ve come close to the brink myself. I’ve thought of suicide—”
“Stop thinking of it!”