tonight. I had hoped to find it. I promised Bertha. I came alone.
I had reasons to believe I had solved it. I found the Rhamda and
the Nervina. I had iron will and courage--also strength. The
Rhamda was never able to control me. My life is gone but not my
will. Now I have left him another. Do not surrender, Harry. It is
a gruesome task; but hold on to the end. Help me up the steps.
There now. Just wait a minute till I fetch a stimulant."

He did not ring for a servant. That I noticed. Instead he groped
about for a key, unlocked the door and stumbled into a room. He
fumbled for a minute among some glasses.

"Will you switch on a light?" he asked.

Hobart struck a match; when he found it he pressed the switch.

The room in which we were standing was a large one, fairly well
furnished, and lined on two sides with bookshelves; in the centre
was an oak table cluttered with papers, a couple of chairs, and on
one of them, a heavy pipe, which, somehow, I did not think of as
Watson's. He noticed my look.

"Jerome's," he explained. "We live here--Jerome, the detective,
and myself. He has been here since the day of the doctor's
disappearance. I came here a year ago. He is in Nevada at present.
That leaves me alone. You will notice the books, mostly occult:
partly mine, partly the detective's. We have gone at it
systematically from the beginning. We have learned almost
everything but what would help us. Mostly sophistry--and
guesswork. Beats all how much ink has been wasted to say nothing.