He smiled. “You’ll have to get his own diagnosis,” he said. “Between you and me, I think he has a high regard for our free board and lodging. He has the sort of insanity of the hobo, of the I-Won’t-Works. But he came to it too late in life to make freight cars and hay-lofts at all attractive. He was too settled down to wander the world, and too--well, insane to work.” “Well!” I laughed, “I daresay there are many like him--only they are quartered on relatives, or wives, or friends.... In ancient days that form of insanity was highly honorable. It is, isn’t it, the insanity of the artist?” His answer was to knock at a door, and a deep and rather pleasing voice cried, “Come in.” So we went in. The light flooded brightly through the tall wide window, so that at first I only saw a dark bulk coming toward us. But I noticed the walls hung with many strange and brilliant drawings, all of a symbolical nature, mythic animals and gods, stars and moons, and landscapes that never were. When I was through blinking, and had my man on the darker side of me, I saw him quite plainly. He was rather bulky and large, swarthy and something about his face resembling the face of a turtle. His manner was very courteous, but a little absent. The young interne excused himself, with a private wink at me, as much as to say: “I won’t interfere”; and so we were left alone. I offered him a cigar, which pleased him, and we sat in comfortable armchairs by the window, and were soon plunged in scientific discussion.... But I saw he was restless. I noticed, too, now, that his clothes were ill-fitting, worn out, patched and rather dirty; that his nails and fingers were sooted up with crayon and stained with ink; that his cheeks and chin needed a shave and his hair was rather longer than we wear it. His restlessness increased. He rubbed his chin, gazed about abstractedly, swung his leg back and forth in a too obvious rhythm. And at last he spoke in a voice which did not seem his at all--a voice which appeared to me to belong to some other person. The voice he had used was quiet and cool, although sympathetic. This new voice was personal, hot, and almost bitter. “What is the use of all this talk?” he cried out. “It gets us nowhere. Intellect! science! theory! brain-spinning! Young man, that is our modern Devil. Kill him ... strangle him out of your soul. He is the Devil of the ice, of the cold polar regions. Better a hundred times the old Devil of the burning hell, for in fire there is also God!” For a moment I thought I was coming to psychic fisticuffs with him; but I reflected, and at once swallowed my pride. “I see,” I said, looking him in the eyes, “you knew this modern Devil very well; perhaps intimately.” He glanced at me.