“This impresses you as odd?” questioned Palermo, with a smile. “You would not wonder if you understood. It is my method of complete relaxation.
“I realize the dire results of high nervous tension. When I have completed work in my laboratory, I invariably come here. It completely changes my mental attitude. Hassan!”
At the command, the Arab seemed to appear from nowhere. Like his master, he was clad in Oriental garments. He seemed to know what Doctor Palermo desired, for he went to the French doors at the end of the room, and swung them open.
Burke could see out over the city below. Myriads of twinkling lights shone in the distance. It was a wonderful vista that was beyond the most imaginative dream of an ancient writer.
“Come!”
Burke walked to the roof of the building. It was flat, with a railing. Doctor Palermo led his visitor to the rail, and pointed out beyond.
“Here,” he said, “I am monarch of the world. The trivial affairs of mankind”—he pointed to the street below, where toylike automobiles rolled along a street that seemed no wider than a ribbon—”those affairs seem very small and futile.
“It is a long way down there. It would seem long if one should fall. Moments would seem like hours. To a falling man, all the past events of his life flash through his mind.”
The doctor’s hand gripped Burke’s elbow, and the newspaperman stepped back from the rail in alarm.
Palermo smiled broadly, and Burke saw that smile in the light from the Oriental room.