“Does it seem so now?”
Faunce raised a haggard face.
“It’s no longer a question of right or wrong with me. It’s no longer a question of life or death. I’m haunted!”
Gerry gave him a keen glance.
“I see—it has reached a point that’s worse than staying behind to die?”
Faunce rose and began to walk the floor again. The lamp on the table had nearly burned out, and the corners of the room were gloomy. The odd bits of pottery and an old skull—brought from some ancient excavations—gleamed uncannily in the shadows. The doctor, before the fire, refused to look in his direction now, and Faunce came back at last with a cry of desperation.
“It haunts me!” he repeated with a smothered groan. “I’ve told you in hope that I could exorcise the demon. I had to tell you! When I sleep I dream of it; when I’m awake I can still see it—that frozen waste and—Overton!”
Gerry nodded his head thoughtfully.
“It’s killing me!” Faunce went on. “I can’t sleep naturally. I’ve increased the dose, but I can’t sleep long. Look at my hands now!”
As he held them out, they were shaking like the hands of a palsy patient. Dr. Gerry eyed them; then he looked up keenly into the haggard face and wild eyes.