JOHNS’s second visit to Dr. Blake was much briefer than the first.  
The doctor had refused to advise further without direct . “I must see the man,” he said decisively.
 
And when John had , he had asked the patient’s name.
 
“Simeon Tetlow!” he said thoughtfully, but smiling a little. “Why did n’t you tell me at first it was Sim Tetlow?”
 
“Do you know him?” asked John.
 
“I knew him years ago, in college. He was n’t what he is now—more human blood. I knew him pretty well up to the time he was married.”
 
John looked up. “I did n’t know he was married!”
 
“A beautiful woman,” said the doctor, “too good for him—She died the next year—and the baby—That was twenty years ago and more........ So it’s Sim! I might have guessed. There is n’t a man in a thousand miles that fits the case as he does—Driving himself to death!”
 
The young man waited directions.
 
“Send him to me,” said the doctor. “He ’ll come—Yes. He won’t mind seeing me!” He laughed a little.
 
John started for home with heart. Simeon would obey the great doctor—and all would be well. He even slept a little on the way. But when the train reached Bay-port, it was not yet three o’clock. He hesitated as he left the station. He had not expected to reach home before morning and his mother was not expecting him. She would be sure to waken—perhaps lie awake the rest of the night. He turned his steps toward the “R. and Q.” office building. There was a cushioned settle in the little upper office; he had had it brought in lately—in the hope that Simeon would use it. He would spend the rest of the night there, and be on hand in the morning.
 
He turned the key noiselessly in the lock and went in. The great building lay silent and shadowy as he made his way from room to room, up flight after flight of long stairs, guided only by the sense of touch and familiarity. The darkness about him seemed filled with whispers—plots, counterplots. He felt them , as he climbed—yet with a certain of heart. Simeon would see Dr. Blake. All would be right. Let the master of the road once be master of himself and the shadows would melt. He crossed the upper and went into the little room. The air was , after the freshness outside, and he threw open the windows, leaning out to breathe deep. He heard the roar of the engine coming into the yard on the still air and saw the lights gleam through the smoke.
 
It was a wonderful night. The deep September sky twinkled with stars and far below him, the city, dark and mysterious and sad, lifted its lamps. They broke the darkness, , faint—like some inner meaning. The youth looking down had a sudden, quickened sense of power, vast issues, interests. The city slept at his feet, beautiful, relaxed. Fold upon fold of darkness wrapped it round and his heart went out to it—helpless there in the darkness—and in its midst, Simeon—asleep or awake—waiting the new day. A fresh to the man within him. The sleeping city touched him in a way he could not name—its mighty power cradled in the night in sleep.
 
He threw himself on the couch and slept.
 
It was the lightest click... but he sat up, his eyes on darkness. The lock clicked again and the door swung open. He felt it move softly through the black, and close again. A footstep crossed the floor. John waited. He was leaning forward, staring before him, his slow mind wrestling with the sounds that came and went, lightly. He was unarmed. He had only his hands; he them a little and felt the muscles behind them. He was not altogether defenceless!
 
The sounds puzzled him. They were methodical, deliberate—not as if finding out the way, but as if accustomed to the place and to darkness. ... Simeon Tetlow, himself?—The thought flashed at him and drew back. ... A light stole through the gloom—the focused glow of the electric pocket candle on a desk across the room—Simeon’s desk.
 
John leaned forward, holding his breath.
 
... Behind the candle, a vague form—a massive head and shoulders, bending above the lock of the desk.... The key was fitted in and the top lifted. Then, for the first time, the man seemed to hesitate, his head turning itself a little in the shadow and waiting, as if disturbed. The glow of the candle suddenly went out and the steps moved stealthily. John straightened himself—the clinched hand ready.... The steps slowly and a hand at the open window, lowering it without sound and drawing down the thick shade. The man moved to the other window and closed it. The youth on the lounge caught the muttered sound of his own name, as if in imprecation.... Then the steps again. ... And suddenly the soft candle—shining in the dark.
 
The man reached into the half-gloom of the desk for a . He seemed to know without which he wanted. He opened it and fell to work, in the middle of a page, the eye of the candle traveling up and down the columns, the scratching pen figures to a kind of muttered accompaniment.
 
John recognized the book, in the shadowy light.... He ought not to have left it there. He had more than ............