ONLY the restraining eyes of Doctor Palermo kept Horace Chatham from losing control of himself. His eyes were wild; his lips twitched. He gripped the arms of the chair.
“The purple sapphire,” said Palermo musingly. “I have never heard of it. It is strange that this obsession of Harriman’s should have gripped you, Chatham. You are simply the victim of applied suggestion.”
Chatham’s lips moved, as though he were trying to make them ask a question.
“Harriman believed that the gem carried a curse,” continued Palermo calmly. “His belief was so strong that you were subject to it, also. Your promise to keep it a secret unnerved you, after Harriman’s suicide.
“Now that you have told me of it, you will experience relief. With a few treatments, I can cure you of all fear. Your terror is not real.”
“It is real!” Chatham’s voice was a hoarse scream. “It is real, I tell you! I have never felt safe since I took that gem from Harriman.
“I have been followed. People have entered my apartment while I was away. I have never seen them — but I have found evidence that they have been on my trail. Not more than a week ago, a car followed mine as I came into New York.
“Everywhere — at the theater, at the club — eyes have been watching me.
“Tonight, when I came here, I was followed! I changed cabs, and managed to avoid pursuit. All because I own that cursed purple sapphire!
“I can never lose the curse of it. Harriman died because of it—”