The Three Eyes

None of us had set eyes on him for a week. A prey to that nervous exasperation into which the final test of any of his inventions invariably threw him, he was living among his furnaces and retorts, keeping every door shut, sleeping on a sofa, eating nothing but fruit and bread. And suddenly he stood before the narrator, livid, wild-eyed, stammering, emaciated, as though he had lately recovered from a long and dangerous illness.