“Yes—yes, write the letter to Tomlinson,” said Simeon. “The sooner the better.”
And John, as he sat down to write it, had no glimpse of the clue that was laughing at him, to his face, while his pen moved over the paper; he had no suspicion that the farm, offered rent free, was a last desperate attempt to lift a Scotch curse.... He saw only Tomlinson’s face—when he should read the letter—and the children playing on the Bardwell farm.
The physician gave his consent reluctantly. “You may be able to carry it through, but it’s a great risk. He ought to stop now—at once.”
“He ’s more quiet, sir,” said John, “less nervous. He wants to sleep—falls asleep at his desk sometimes.”
Dr. Blake smiled a little grimly. “The next stage he will not be so quiet,” he said. “Best not tempt nature too far.”
John’s face grew thoughtful. “It would kill him to do it.”
“To stop now—What ’s the difference-two weeks, or now?”
He listened as John laid the facts of the case before him. “But he’s rich—even if the road goes to pieces. Better lose the road than his reason—his life!”
John smiled. “I think the road is his reason—his life. He has lived in it so long that he does n’t quite know, I think, which is Road and which is Simeon Tetlow.”
The physician was looking with interest at this stupid, slow-speaking young man, who seemed to put his finger so exactly on the truth.