The meeting occurred in the reception-room downstairs, for no one from the outside world may ever penetrate to the wards and the bleak realities of everyday asylum life. The reception-room had a baize-covered table in the middle, a black horsehair sofa and numerous chairs; it was totally devoid of small movables; there was an A B C time-table and one or two illustrated weeklies on the table, and the walls bore brown-spotted steel engravings of Prince Albert and Queen Victoria in the Highlands and of Windsor Castle from the Thames. There were three or four groups, each of two or three people, with their heads together conversing in tactful undertones; there were several women and one little girl; a tearful lady in profound mourning sat apart by the empty fire-place and no doubt awaited a patient; two attendants tried hard not to look as though they were listening as intently as possible to the conversations going on about them. The patients present were all in the sanest phase, “fit to be visited.” There was no madness visible; at most only a little nervous oddity. Bobby had been watching these other groups while he waited, and he had been impressed by a certain quality of furtiveness in their behaviour. The furtiveness he connected with the alertness of the attendants. One affected to look out of the window, the other half sat at a table holding an old Graphic, and ever and again there would be a quick glance at this patient or that. It had not occurred to Bobby that his talk to Sargon would be semi-public; it was a disconcerting interference that would greatly hamper him in giving his instructions.
Bobby saw at once that Sargon was very much thinner than when he had taken his room in Midgard Street. He looked ill and worn, an effect that was emphasized by the fact that he was badly shaven and wearing ill-fitting clothes. His eyes seemed larger and sunken under his brows and his forehead more definitely lined. Yet if he looked unhappier he also looked more intelligent. He seemed more aware of the things about him—less a man in a dream.
“I have come to see if I can be of service to you,” said Bobby, holding out his hands. “Your friends and disciples are anxious for your welfare.”
“You have come to see me,” he said, and glanced sideways at the listening attendant and dropped his voice; “me—Sargon?”
Bobby understood that note of doubt and it grieved him. “You, Sargon, the King out of the Past.”
“They would have me deny it,” whispered Sargon.
Bobby raised his eyebrows and nodded his head as who should say, “They’d do anything.”
The little man’s manner changed. “How is one to know?” he said. “How is one to know?”
He sighed. “Nothing seems certain any more.”
“Can we sit down and talk together?” said Bobby. “There is much to be said between us.”