Sucks books

"Good night," I said at length.
"Good night," he echoed mechanically.
I know that he slept that night--at least his bed had been slept
in when I awoke in the morning. But he was gone. But then, it was
not unusual for him, when the fever for work was on him, to
consider even five or fewer hours a night's rest. It made no
difference when I argued with him. The fact that he thrived on it
himself and could justify it by pointing to other scientists was
refutation enough.
Slowly I dressed, breakfasted, and began transcribing what I could
from the hastily jotted down notes of the day before. I knew that
the work, whatever it was, in which he was now engaged must be in
the nature of research, dear to his heart. Otherwise, he would
have left word for me.
No word came from him, however, all day, and I had not only caught
up in my notes, but, my appetite whetted by our first case, had
become hungry for more. In fact I had begun to get a little
worried at the continued silence. A hand on the knob of the door
or a ring of the telephone would hare been a welcome relief.


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