died there, I believe. But I have never been a nervous individual; I don’t believe in ghosts or such nonsense. So I leapt at the opportunity to be economical.’
“‘And what did you see?’
“‘Nothing. That’s the curious part of it” He laughed huskily. ‘But I’ve smelt—’
“‘Is there any opening from your room that gives on another chamber?’
“‘No. Only the door and the transom above it, opening on the hall.’
“‘Does anyone else mention smelling anything?’
“‘Not that I know of.’
“‘And the window?’
“‘Opens on the rear garden, There is a plum tree outside the window, and a bed of flowers, pansies and rose bushes,’
“‘Are you sure you do not smell them? On a warm sultry evening the perfume can sometimes be quite overpowering.’
“‘No, Doctor, it was nothing at all like that. Let me describe again what happened. I moved into the room yesterday afternoon. At nine o’clock I went to bed. My window was open, of course, and the transom over the door ajar. For pers haps an hour I read—maybe longer. Even while reading I was conscious of sniffing some subtle perfume, and once or twice I got up and went into the hall, but, when I did, the smell vanished. However, it was only the suggestion of a smell; so finally I turned out the light and went to sleep.
“‘What time it was the smell awakened me, I do not know, but the room was full of it. It was not a fragrant smell— not the odor of damp earth and breathing flowers—but rather, of something unpleasant; something, I am sure, that was rotten. Not that I thought so at the time, for during the experience I was intoxicated by the odor, That is the ghastly part of the whole business, I tell you I lay on the bed and luxuriated in that smell, I actually rolled in it, rolling on the mattress, over and over, as you may have seen dogs rolling in carrion. My whole body seemed to gulp in the foul atmosphere, every inch and pore of it; my skin muscles twitched, and from head to foot I was conscious of such exquisite rapture and delight that it beggars description.
“‘All night I lay on the bed and wallowed in that delicious sea of perfume; and then suddenly it was daylight and I could hear people stirring in other rooms. The smell was gone, and I was conscious of being sick and weak; so sick that I retched and vomited and could eat no breakfast. And it was then I realized that all night I had revelled in the odor of rottenness, of something unspeakably foul, but at the time desirable and piercingly sweet. So I came to you.’
“He leaned back, exhausted, and for a moment I was at a loss what to say. But only for a moment. You will remember that I was reading Hudson’s book, ‘A Hind in Hyde Park,’ when interrupted, If you have ever read the book, you will recollect that a portion of it deals with the sense of smell in animals. By a strange coincidence—if anything can be termed merely a coincidence—I was reading that section, and also several passages devoted to a dissertation on dreams. Taking refuge in an explanation quoted by Hudson, I said soothingly:
“‘The condition is evidently a rare but quite explainable one. I suppose you know something of the nature of dreams. A sleeping man pricks his hand with a pin and a dream follows to account for the prick. He dreams that he is ram-
