He mused again.  “To tell the truth!” he muttered, moving his head up and down.  “I have lived for science.  Shall I wreck all now?  There are truths which it is better to hide than to proclaim.  Uncomfortable truths—­truths that never should have been—­truths which help to make greater truths incredible.  But, all the same, I cannot help admiring that woman.  She has Yorke-Bannerman’s intellect, with a great deal more than Yorke-Bannerman’s force of will.  Such firmness! such energy! such resolute patience!  She is a wonderful creature.  I can’t help admiring her!”

I said no more to him just then.  I thought it better to let nascent remorse and nascent admiration work out their own natural effects unimpeded.  For I could see our enemy was beginning to feel some sting of remorse.  Some men are below it.  Sebastian thought himself above it.  I felt sure he was mistaken.

Yet even in the midst of these personal preoccupations, I saw that our great teacher was still, as ever, the pure man of science.  He noted every symptom and every change of the disease with professional accuracy.  He observed his own case, whenever his mind was clear enough, as impartially as he would have observed any outside patient’s.  “This is a rare chance, Cumberledge,” he whispered to me once, in an interval of delirium.  “So few Europeans have ever had the complaint, and probably none who were competent to describe the specific subjective and psychological symptoms.  The delusions one gets as one sinks into the coma, for example, are of quite a peculiar type—­delusions of wealth and of absolute power, most exhilarating and magnificent.  I think myself a millionaire or a Prime Minister.  Be sure you make a note of that—­in case I die.  If I recover, of course I can write an exhaustive monograph on the whole history of the disease in the British Medical Journal.  But if I die, the task of chronicling these interesting observations will devolve upon you.  A most exceptional chance!  You are much to be congratulated.”

“You must not die, Professor,” I cried, thinking more, I will confess, of Hilda Wade than of himself.  “You must live . . . to report this case for science.”  I used what I thought the strongest lever I knew for him.

He closed his eyes dreamily.  “For science!  Yes, for science!  There you strike the right chord!  What have I not dared and done for science?  But, in case I die, Cumberledge, be sure you collect the notes I took as I was sickening—­they are most important for the history and etiology of the disease.  I made them hourly.  And don’t forget the main points to be observed as I am dying.  You know what they are.  This is a rare, rare chance!  I congratulate you on being the man who has the first opportunity ever afforded us of questioning an intelligent European case, a case where the patient is fully capable of describing with accuracy his symptoms and his sensations in medical phraseology.”