"Don't leave me, doctor! It's a terrible thing to kill so many people, all at once, like flies, like flies!"
And he burst into tears, sobbing and shaking with the awful visions of his brain, his head buried in his arms.
CHAPTER XXVI
The next morning Hart found himself on a sofa in a bare, dusky room that looked as if it was a doctor's office. He sat up and tried to think what had happened to him overnight. Suddenly the picture of the burning hotel swept across his memory, and he groaned with a fresh sense of sharp pain. Some one was whistling in the next room, and presently the door opened, and Dr. Coburn appeared in trousers and undershirt, mopping his face with a towel. The architect recognized him now, and knew that he was the one who had struggled with him in his dreams.
"Hello, Jack Hart!" the doctor called out boisterously. "How are you feeling? Kind of dopey? My, but you were full of booze last night! I had to jam a hypodermic into you to keep you quiet, when I got you over here. Do you get that way often?"
"Was I drunk?" the architect asked dully.
"Well, I rather think. Don't you feel it this morning?"
He grinned at the dishevelled figure on the sofa and continued to mop his face.
"You were talking dotty, too, about killing folks. I thought maybe you might have a gun on you. But I couldn't find anything. What have you been doing?"