"Oh?" said Gannet, politely. He put out his hand so that I could shake it if I reached through the bars of his door a little. I hesitated, then grasped it. He didn't look dangerous.
"How" re you doing with your what-is-it, Gannet?" the attendant said, nodding solemnly toward the bright corner where lay the object of the man's attentions.
"Pretty well," said Gannet. "This damned floor isn't quite level. It's three thirty-seconds of an inch to the foot off. I have to allow for that in every line and angle, and it makes it needlessly difficult."
"What is it you're building?" asked Nick wheedlingly. "You won't tell any of us, but won't you tell Mr. Freer, for his newspaper story?"
"There it is," shrugged Gannet, pointing to the corner. "See for yourself."
I stared involuntarily at the corner, then, feeling like a fool, back at his mild, sad face. Was there a ghost of a twinkle in his gray eyes? Or was it my imagination? I couldn't tell. I was beginning to feel a little crazy myself.
We walked away. The big library and lounging-room where the almost-cured could sit and read was left for me to see. But I looked around without much interest as we passed through. I kept thinking of Gannet.
"Has he been going through that set of motions very long?" I asked the attendant.
"He started right after he got here," said Nick. "That was a year ago. He came here raving, trying to fight free and get back to the house where he'd lived with his son and daughter-in-law. There was something in his room he had to get, he said. Then he calmed down, and next day began going through the routine you saw. Some days he 'works' only a few hours, sometimes all day long and up until lights-out at night."
"The way he puttered around that corner made me think I was off myself, for not seeing something there," I said. "It was amazingly realistic. As though you could surely feel what he was working on, even if you couldn't see it. Has anybody ever felt around that corner where he spends his time?"
"Hey, boy," said Nick, "easy, now. Pretty soon we'll be sending a wagon for you."
"But has anybody?" I persisted, smiling.
"No. That's the one thing that brings out Gannet's kink: If anyone gets too close to that corner he gets quite violent. So we don't even clean there. We're trying to cure these folks, not upset 'em needlessly."
We went out the massive door of the main building, where a stalwart attendant eyed us sharply. There were nicely kept grounds, and then a high fence with inward-slanting barbs on its top.
"You don't want anybody to escape from here, do you?" I said, nodding toward the heavy door and the high fence.
Nick grinned. "Nope. And nobody ever has. Or ever will, I reckon. See you in church."
But he saw me sooner than that.
I kept thinking of the spare, mild-mannered man with the sad, determined eyes all evening, after I'd handed my story in to the paper. I kept thinking about him next morning. And next afternoon saw me at the asylum again, standing in front of Gannet's barred door.
He was as busy as he had been yesterday. But his activity seemed more mental than physical today. He would stand in the center of his cell, hand rubbing jaw, while he stared at the sunny corner. Then he would walk to the corner and touch a spot in midair with an inquisitive fore-
