With shocking suddenness it occurred to me, for the first time, seriously, that I had no assurance that this man who drove me was not a maniac!
I reviewed the meeting with him, the tale he had unfolded, his distraught actions. I am fairly familiar with psychopathic symptoms and my summary of all that I had observed in him indicated clearly enough that he was as sane as any one of us. But for the first time in my life I realized the feeling of uncertainty about a physician’s diagnosis which a patient must endure. A doctor delivers his opinion as a matter of self-assertion; the layman receives it as a matter of self-preservation. Riding in that flying car, I found myself in both positions. As a physician I was wholly satisfied with my conclusion; as a man I found myself still in doubt and picturing to myself a wild ten-minute ride, which I had no power to prevent, ending in a chaos of broken glass, twisted metal, clothing, blood, and flaming gasoline.
“MacMechem met violent death the moment he became curious as to the other side of the blue wall,” I thought, with a twinge of the superstitious fear which touches prowlers as well as presidents, professors as well as paupers.
We were whirling around a corner then, and through the glass and over Estabrook’s broad shoulders, I believed I saw again the treetops of the park.
“At least he knows where he lives,” said I to myself as we drew up to the curb.
“Good!” I whispered to him, when I had stepped out into the swash of the rain. “Frankly, I hardly enjoyed it. You drive like a demonstrator.”
“I’m a ruin of nerves,” he answered, shivering. “I’m afraid I’m a poor assistant for you, anyway. What do you want me to do?”
“Just climb inside there where it is warmer,” I said, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Back in a minute?” he repeated as if dazed.
“From the Marburys’, if you don’t mind,” I explained.