The physician sank into a library chair. The criminologist
quietly awaited his cue. He lit a cigarette and the minutes
drifted past with no word between them. The doctor's gaze
lowered to the vellum-bound books on the carven table, then to
the gorgeous pattern of the Kermansha at his feet. Once more he
studied the face of his companion, with the keen, soul-gripping
scrutiny of the skilled physician. As last he arrived at a
definite conclusion. He cleared his throat, and fumbled in his
waistcoat pocket for a cigar. A swiftly struck match in Monty's
hand was held up so promptly to the end of the cigar, that the
doctor's lips had not closed about it. This deftness, simple in
itself, did not escape the observation of the scientist. He
smiled for the first time during their interview.

"Your reflex nerves are very wide awake for a quiet man. I
believe I can depend upon those nerves, and your quietude. May I
ask what occupation you follow, if any? Most of Howard's friends
follow butterflies."

"I am one of them, then. Some opera, more theatricals, much art
gallery touring. A little regular reading in my rooms, and there
you are! My great grandfather was too poor a trader to succeed
in pelts, so he invested a little money in rocky pastures around
upper Manhattan: this has kept the clerks of the family bankers
busy ever since. I am an optimistic vagabond, enjoying life in
the observation of the rather ludicrous busyness of other folk.
In short, Doctor, I am a corpulent Hamlet, essentially modern in
my cultivation of a joy in life, debating the eternal question
with myself, but lazily leaving it to others to solve. Therein I
am true to my type."