In the preparation room for the Royal Society's lecture, Charles Wheatstone was covered in sweat, his lips pale, his shirt soaked. The thought of standing on the podium and facing hundreds, perhaps thousands, of listeners tomorrow made his legs tremble uncontrollably.
Wheatstone sat in the chair for a while, but feeling restless, he stood up and paced the room. However, it wasn't long before his calves felt weak again.
Just this morning, he had felt in better physical condition than ever before, but now he felt as if death were not far off.
Wheatstone muttered, "Maybe I should find an opportunity to escape London until the Royal Society has forgotten about me, then come back?"
As Wheatstone was talking to himself, he heard a click; the bolted door was pushed open from the outside.
Startled, Wheatstone stepped back, nearly knocking over the floor mirror behind him.
He exclaimed, "Isn't it too early for me? I'm not supposed to go on stage until tomorrow."