orange disc made on the desk by the light of a heavily shaded lamp, the
room was dark; the silence broken only by the occasional crackle of the
wood fire and the faint rustle as Sir Jonathan turned a page.

"Notes" was written in letters of brass across the thick book heavily
bound in leather, and of which the small key to the massive Bramah lock
was kept in a pocket especially made in every waistcoat Sir Jonathan
possessed.

Slowly he read through the page he had just written, crossing a t,
dotting an i, adding or scratching out a word of the writing which was
in no way more legible than that of any other surgeon; and when he had
read he ran his hand through the mass of snow-white hair, sighed, and
pushed the book further back on to the desk.

It is an eerie sound that of someone speaking aloud to himself, and
still more eerie when it occurs in the middle of the night when the
only part of the speaker to be clearly seen is the strong white hands
moving in the orange disc thrown on the desk by the heavily shaded lamp.

And it is a strange habit this talking aloud of the solitary soul.

Mad?

Not a bit.

Dumb in the babel and din of chaotic midday, unresponsive to the
uncongenial matter around, it will talk on subjects gay and grave, and
even laugh with the silent sympathetic shades of midnight.