He had left the bathhouse just after midday. He had found himself some minutes later, he did not remember how, sitting in front of his desk with the door of the dispensary locked behind him. There he had sat, thinking things out, till his brain seemed to be turning like the wheels of an eccentric watch deprived of its hair spring.
Monotonously the thought recurred: Doctor Murchison, the man in charge of Château Landry was the Honorable Geoffrey Godstone, the homicidal maniac. There could not be the least doubt about it. Habit still argued that what he had seen meant nothing much; but his reason assured him that it was proof irresistillle. He had seen crosses tattooed on the feet of the man who was masquerading as Doctor Murchison. There were similar crosses on the feet of the patient Gods
