One word cried out to Martin.
“‘Madness’?—you say?”
“Yes,” said the physician. “It’s like the putrefaction of albumen. Almost like the expansion of gasses within a closed chamber. This disintegration must go on. It’s what we have here.”
Martin felt himself turning sick.
“‘Putrefaction’? Doctor?”
“Yes. Putrefaction of the cerebral mass, that most delicate and most amazing structure—a powerful gift to man.” The doctor was grave.
“What can I do?” asked Martin, horrified.
In answer, the physician shook his head and Martin knew that all was futile.
“May I see him?”