There was the large high window, the dingy outlook upon the brownish brick backs of other houses, the soft carpet, the mediocre pictures, the massive desk with telephone and engagement-book, the beautiful fountain-pen and the wonderful little chromium-plated calendar which you worked by twisting things at the side. There was even the silver-framed photograph of a pretty girl which you nearly always see in rooms of this kind, and which I always suspect is put there by its occupant to warn his women patients not to make love to him. This was the kind of room into which I was now put and left, and the crowning absurdity was reached when Fry, as an afterthought, came in and smilingly offered me a copy of Punch to read while I waited!

I was left waiting at least ten minutes, during which I heard vague noises and Crowmarsh’s voice in the distance, and I need not describe my sensations during that time. You may think that this indifferent, matter-of-fact atmosphere should have calmed me down—indeed I told myself at the time that it had been engineered with that object in view: but actually it had the contrary effect, and by the time the immaculately-dressed Crowmarsh at last condescended to enter, I was so paralysed with fright and anguished expectancy I could barely open my mouth to greet him.

His manner of greeting me was of a piece with everything else—calm, matter-of-fact, almost distrait, as though I had come round to have a not particularly interesting photograph taken of my inside. I have said that at the time I thought that this atmosphere was deliberately engineered. I have since come to revise that view. This sheer cold disinterest, I now believe, was simply the man. He had made enough fuss of me when he wanted me for his own purpose: now I had agreed, and he had me at his mercy, he had no more interest in me than as some necessary part of his detestable machinery. But I was foolish enough at the time to mistake his inhumanity for a subtle form of manly humanity.

Almost immediately after he had smiled his rather mechanical smile and shaken hands with me, he sat down in his chair in front of his desk, and with a murmured “Excuse me a moment, will you?” began to read an opened letter which lay on his desk. This he went through with the utmost calm and unconsciousness of my presence, turning it over in his hand when he had finished it, and re-reading certain portions …

“Well, well, well,” he said, in a sort of half-facetious, half-absentminded way, as he put the letter down (and I do not know to this day whether those three ‘wells’ alluded in a general way to the letter, or to the situation as regards me). “Will you have a cigarette?”

And he slid the box along the desk in my direction with a large, firm gesture which was characteristic of him.

“Thanks,” I said, hardly able to pick a cigarette out, my hand and fingers trembled so. He slid a box of matches along with the same kind of gesture, and I lit up. Evidently he himself was not going to smoke. There was then an awkward silence, which he obviously found in no way awkward.

“Is everything ready?” I said, simply in order to say something.

“Yes. Everything’s ready,” he said, with the same air of not having his attention fully focused upon me. “Baldock’ll be down in a moment.” And there was another long silence.

“Feeling nervous?” he said, smiling a little and revealing belated signs of a little fellow-feeling, for which I was disproportionately grateful.

“Yes. I am a bit.”

“Well, there’s nothing to be nervous about,” he said in his slow voice. “You know that, don’t you?”

“Maybe. But I am. Wouldn’t you be?”

“Oh—I don’t know …” he said, but got no further, for at this moment Roger Baldock entered.

There was an air of much greater sympathy and loquacious friendliness about this brilliant young assistant of Crowmarsh who has since become so famous. There was also an air, which he was unfortunately unable to conceal, of a young man engaged in one of the biggest larks of his life without any personal responsibility resting on his shoulders. In my terrified state I was much more sensitive to the latter aspect of his demeanour. Good God (I remember thinking), what are they going to do to me between them—this callous brute of a man and this inconsequent boy?

After three or four minutes’ further conversation, which I cannot now remember anything about, Baldock produced a stethoscope from somewhere, and with a murmured “This, of course, is just a formality” began to listen to my heart. He made no comment on what he heard, and put the instrument away. “Well,” said Crowmarsh, “let’s go upstairs, shall we?”

And from this moment, I believe I can truthfully say that my sufferings ended, for I was no longer there to suffer. I was another, unlocated self, observing the three of us, hearing myself talking with the rest, noting every detail of our behaviour with disinterested gravity. I was aware even at the time that this feeling was none other than that merciful one so often spoken of by victims who have awaited judgment or execution. I can only describe it as a feeling of not belonging to my surroundings—of being therefore untouchable. If I had any fear now it was only the fear that this feeling would go.

Of what happened when we reached our destination—the most famous room in the world, on the third floor—I can now remember very little. I can remember Baldock disappearing, and Crowmarsh offering me another cigarette.