Nancy was radiant.
“Exactly! … So long as he was saying the customary thing, the normal thing, the thing you understood, he was sane! When he got to the unusual, the thing you did not understand, he was crazy! … That’s the way the average mind operates; but you daren’t make snap judgment like that, for you’re to be dealing with queer heads all your life!”
Throughout the long taxi drive to the hospital, their conversation studiously avoided the mystery they had confronted. They talked of his medical course. What did he like best? She shuddered when he spoke of his delight in anatomy.
“One gets used to that,” he assured her. “And old Huber’s a prince! He handles those poor cadavers as if they were our relatives. I’ll bet if some of them had been given as much tender consideration while alive as Huber gives them in the lab, they might have lived longer … Buries their ashes, Huber does, at the end of the semester … conventional interment—bell, book and clergy … Contends that these paupers and idiots and criminals, however much they may have burdened their communities while they lived, have so completely discharged their obligation to society by their service in the lab, that they deserve honourable burial … A fine old boy is Huber, believe me!”
The talk shifted to Nancy’s affairs. She admitted she was worried. Rumour had it that Joyce Hudson was quite out of bounds; that Mrs. Hudson, apparently, could do nothing with her any more. She was being seen at the wrong places, with the wrong people.
“Do you suppose there is anything you could do about it, Bobby? Joyce is still your friend, isn’t she?”
“I presume.” His tone lacked interest. “I haven’t seen her for nearly a year, you know.”
“It may be just a notion of mine, but I always thought Joyce was a little in love with you, Bobby.”
His gesture denied it.
“She isn’t; but—suppose she was! … Would that be a good reason for my mixing in, over there? I’m not in love with her. No—I don’t believe my obligation to Doctor Hudson involves my serving in loco parentis to his daughter.”
“I’m not so sure it doesn’t,” reflected Nancy. “You’ve had an ambition to finish out his life for him, and part of his job was Joyce. There were times when all of his job was Joyce! You’ve no idea how much he gave up for her! Why, he even married—to keep her straight!”
“That shouldn’t have been much of a sacrifice.” Bobby grinned.
“Have you ever seen her—since?”
“Never tried to.”
“Still think about her sometimes?”
“Why do you want to know?” His tone hinted that he would like to close the door between them—not rudely, but—to close it, nevertheless; and, prompt to feel it, Nancy disclaimed her right to inquire.
“Forgive me, won’t you? I haven’t anything to do, you know, but amuse myself wondering about things like that.”
“Then I mustn’t do you out of your occupation.”
Nancy hung their coats in her closet, drew up a chair beside him, and together they faced the book again, agreeing that she should read the script, letter by letter, while Bobby arranged it into words.
“First, let me finish telling you the part I have already deciphered,” he said, putting down his pencil. “Randolph pointed to the epitaph and inquired, ‘How do you like this one?’
“ ‘Means nothing to me!’ replied Doctor Hudson. ‘If there is a God, He probably has no more interest in any man’s so-called victory, which can always be circumstantially explained, than in the victory of a cabbage that does well in a favourable soil.’
“ ‘Then you’re related to God same as a cabbage!’ chuckled Randolph. ‘That’s good!’
“He resumed his work, deftly tapping his chisel. ‘I used to think that,’ he went on, talking half to himself. ‘Made a little experiment, and changed my mind about it.’ He put down his mallet, leaned far forward, and, cupping his mouth with both hands, confided, in a mysterious tone, ‘I’ve been on the line!’ ”
“He must have been crazy!” Nancy muttered.
“Tut, tut! … What’s come of your genius theory? You’re willing Doctor Hudson should be one—why not Randolph?”
“Quite right! Go on! … But he does sound a little off, doesn’t he?”
“Decidedly! … And dangerously, I should say! … The most cold-blooded, calculating, sacrilegious lunatic you ever met! … I’ll show you. Here is the exact copy of my translation! Listen to this:
He did not have the tone or stance of a fanatic; spoke quietly; had none of the usual tricks by which aberrations are readily identified; talked well, with absolute self-containment. “Victory? Well—rather! I now have everything I want and can do anything I wish! … So can you! … So can anybody! All you have to do is follow the rules! There’s a formula, you know! I came upon it by accident!” He took up his chisel again.
He was a queer one. I felt shy and embarrassed. Clearly, he was cracked, but his manner denied it. I tried to remember he was an artist, with permission to be eccentric; but this was more than an eccentricity. He made me shivery. I wanted to get away. So—I was backing through his doorway when he called, “Doctor—do you have victory?”
“Victory over what?” I demanded, impatiently … I had not told him I was discouraged; hadn’t mentioned I was a doctor … I never did find out how he guessed that—the question being eclipsed by more important mysteries.
“Oh—over anything—everything! Listen!” He climbed swiftly down from his scaffolding, and gliding stealthily toward me as if he had some great secret to impart he whispered into my ear—his hand firmly gripping my coat-lapel, somewhat to my own anxiety—“Would you like to be the best doctor in this town?”
So—then I knew he was crazy, and
