"I am Doctor Dale."
He closed the door of the room deliberately, advancing toward me with slow steps.
"My name is John Harmon—Sir John Harmon. It is unusual, I suppose," he said quietly, with a slight shrug, "coming at this late hour. I won't keep you long."
He faced me silently. A single glance at those strained features convinced me of the reason for his coming. Only one thing can bring such a furtive, restless stare to a man's eyes. Only one thing—fear.
"I've come to you. Dale, because—" Sir John's fingers closed heavily over the edge of the table—"because I am on the verge of going mad."
"From fear?"
"From fear, yes. I suppose it is easy to discover. A single look at me...."
"A single look at you," I said simply, "would convince any man that you are deadly afraid of something. Do you mind telling me just what it is?"
He shook his head slowly. The swagger of the poise was gone; he stood upright now with a positive effort, as if the realization of his position had suddenly surged over him.