"Oh, oh! This is a serious case," muttered the author of the book referred to. "So you really believe that your nephew is insane?" "Dangerously so, doctor. The fact that I was obliged to bind his hands with this very rope is proof of that." "But it was your hands that were bound. Don't you recollect that I just untied them?" "But let me explain--" "Gently, gently, my friend, you are becoming excited. Your face is very red; I don't want you to fatigue yourself. Just be content to answer my questions. You say that your nephew is ill?" "Mad, mad, mad, I tell you!" "And it pleases you to see him mad?" "What?" "Answer me frankly. You don't wish him to be cured, do you?" "Why do you ask me that?" "Because his fortune is under your control. Don't you wish to be rich? Are you not disappointed and discouraged because you have toiled so long without making a fortune? Don't you very naturally think that your turn has come now?" M. Morlot made no reply. His eyes were riveted on the floor. He asked himself if he was not dreaming, and tried his best to decide how much of this whole affair was real, and how much imaginary, so completely bewildered was he by the questions of this stranger, who read his heart as if it had been an open book. "Do you ever hear voices?" inquired Dr. Auvray. Poor M. Morlot felt his hair stand on end, and remembering that relentless voice that was ever whispering in his ear, he replied mechanically, "Sometimes." "Ah, he is the victim of an hallucination," murmured the doctor. "No, there is nothing whatever the matter with me, I tell you. Let me get out of here. I shall be as crazy as my nephew if I remain much longer. Ask my friends. They will all tell you that I am perfectly sane. Feel my pulse. You can see that I have no fever." "Poor uncle!" murmured Francis. "He doesn't know that insanity is delirium unattended with fever." "Yes," added the doctor, "if we could only give our patients a fever, we could cure every one of them." M. Morlot sank back despairingly in his armchair. His nephew began to pace the floor. "I am deeply grieved at my uncle's deplorable condition," he remarked feelingly, "but it is a great consolation to me to be able to intrust him to the care of a man like yourself. I have read your admirable treatise on monomania. It is the most valuable work of the kind that has appeared since the publication of the great Esquirol's Treatise upon Mental Diseases. I know, moreover, that you are truly a father to your patients, so I will not insult you by commending M. Morlot to your special care. As for the compensation you are to receive, I leave that entirely to you." As he spoke, he drew from his pocket-book a thousand-franc note and laid it on the mantel. "I shall do myself the honor to call again some time during the ensuing week. At what hour are your patients allowed to see visitors?" "From twelve to two, only; but I am always at home. Good day, sir."