11

Carstall regarded the Master of the World, and behold he was still the Stink and the sickly–faced orator in the Camford Union, exalted but the same. That little tadpole of a boy with the large head had simply grown to cosmic proportions, and all that remained now of the bold oratorical quality that had swept undergraduate Camford off its feet was something wordily shabby. He affected a stern dignity and it did not suit his fragile smallness. His looks hadn't improved, his eyes were bright with mania and bloodshot, they seemed to have sunken deeper into their sockets, and his voice was harsher. Master of the world!

Carstall received his instructions with an expressionless face. He nodded gravely to a recital of symptoms and asked a few questions. Rud urged him to come into personal attendance forthwith.

"No," said Carstall. "You must come into my clinic. It is not thirty miles from here—you know—near my house opposite that great cliff on the bend of the Gorge of the Loup. You need continuous supervision. You've been overdoing the strychnine."

"How did you know?"

"Everyone nowadays under such stresses as yours takes strychnine in some form. But I think I know what to do with you. I want you under close observation and control. And to be frank, I can trust my own staff, but I'm not so sure here."

"You haven't seen anything definite?" asked the Director with a flash of wild suspicion in his eyes, that vanished almost as soon as it came. "If you think there is anyone."

"No. But this is, what shall I call it?—an office–palace. Where there is a concentration of power in the hands of any single man, there is intrigue. Politics blow in like draughts here whenever a window opens. For a time at least I want to forget what you are and treat you as a case."

"I shall be glad of a rest," said Rud, consenting. "That you shall have," said Carstall.