“Yes, it was,” said Welles. “A very small dose. You know what it is?”
“Yes, sir. I… I read about it somewhere. In the papers.”
“Never mind that. You have a secret—something you want to hide. That’s what you are afraid about, isn’t it?”
The boy nodded dumbly.
“If it’s anything wrong, or that might be wrong, perhaps I could help you. You’ll want to know me better, first. You’ll want to be sure you can trust me. But I’ll be glad to help, any time you say the word, Tim. Or I might stumble on to things the way I did just now. One thing though—I never tell secrets.”
“Never?”
“Never. Doctors and priests don’t betray secrets. Doctors seldom, priests never. I guess I am more like a priest, because of the kind of doctoring I do.”
He looked down at the boy’s bowed head.
“Helping fellows who are scared sick,” said the psychiatrist very gently. “Helping fellows in trouble, getting things straight again, fixing things up, unsnarling tangles. When I can, that’s what I do. And I don’t tell anything to anybody. It’s just between that one fellow and me.”
But, he added to himself, I’ll have to find out. I’ll have to find out what ails this child. Miss Page is right—he needs me.