That night John made a midnight journey, traveling all night and coming back at dawn. He had been to consult Dr. Blake, the great specialist, laying the case before him—withholding only the name of the man whose health was in question.
The physician had listened, his head a little bent, his eyes looking out as if seeing the man whom John described. “It’s the same story—I hear it every day,” he said. “I call it Ameri-canitis—It does n’t make much difference what you call it.... He must stop work—at once.”
“He won’t do it,” said John as promptly.
The physician looked at him keenly. “I suppose not—one of the symptoms. You have influence with him—?”
John shook his head slowly. “Not enough for that. I might get him to do other things, perhaps.”
The physician nodded.
“He would take medicine?”
John smiled at the picture.
“Perhaps.” He waited a little. “I ’m afraid he ’s losing his mind,” he said. “That’s really what I want to know—I don’t dare let him go on.”
The physician assented. “If I could see him ten minutes, I could tell, perhaps—more. But not in the dark, like this. You ask too much,” he said with a smile.