He continued this train of thought to the results that he desired for him, glory; for humanity, the cure of one, and perhaps two, of the most terrible maladies with which it was afflicted.
The question was simple: On one side, Caffie; On the other side, humanity and science; An old rascal who deserved twenty deaths, and who would, anyhow, die naturally in a short time; And humanity, science, which would profit by a discovery of which he would be the author.
He saw that the perspiration stood out on his hands, and he felt it run down his neck.
Why this weakness?
From horror of the crime, the possibility of which he admitted?
Or from fear of seeing his experiments destroyed?
He would reflect, think about it, be upon his guard.
He had told Phillis that intelligent men, before engaging in an action, weigh the pro and con.
Against Caffie's death he saw nothing.
For, on the contrary, everything combined.
If he had had Phillis's scruples, or Brigard's beliefs, he would have stopped.
But, not having them, would he not be silly to draw back?
Before what should he shrink?
Why should he stop?
Remorse?
But he was convinced that intelligent men had no remorse when they came to a decision on good grounds.

It was before that they felt remorse, not after; and he was exactly in this period of before.
Fear of being arrested?
But intelligent men do not let themselves be arrested.

Those who are lost are brutes who go straight ahead, or the half-intelligent, who use their skill and cunning to combine a complicated or romantic act, in which their hand is plainly seen.

As for him, he was a man of science and precision, and he would not compromise himself by act or sentiment; there would be nothing to fear during the action, and nothing afterward.

Caffie strangled, suspicion would not fall upon a doctor, but on a brute.