He was spinning out his sentences, making them intolerably long
and lingering, in the hope of maddening the practical little Doctor
into an explosion of impatience which might show his hand. But the
little Doctor continued only to stare and smile, and the monologue
was uphill work. Syme began to feel a new sickness and despair. The
Doctor's smile and silence were not at all like the cataleptic
stare and horrible silence which he had confronted in the Professor
half an hour before. About the Professor's makeup and all his
antics there was always something merely grotesque, like a
gollywog. Syme remembered those wild woes of yesterday as one
remembers being afraid of Bogy in childhood. But here was daylight;
here was a healthy, square-shouldered man in tweeds, not odd save
for th
