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He could wait no longer now. That room belonged to others. The next
period was his usual hour in the laboratory. It was an hour which on
Monday morning he could, if he wished, spend alone.
His temples were beating, thundering. His hands were so cold that they
seemed things apart from him. But his mouth--how parched it was!--was set
very hard, and his steps, though slow, was firm.
In the outer laboratory, Professor Hastings stopped him, remonstrating
against his working when he was having trouble with his eyes. He assured
him, elaborately, that he was taking care of them, that probably he would
not be in there long.
He opened the door of his laboratory and passed in. He closed it behind
him, and stood there leaning against it. He was all alone now. There was
nothing in the room but himself and the truth which was waiting for him.
He put his book down upon the table. He walked over and sat down before
the culture oven. He must get this over with! He was getting sick. He
could not stand much more.


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