"Next day at noon I was in the rose garden that adjoins the Common. It was July, but a few blossoms still lingered upon the trees. Deep in earnest conversation they were sauntering along the shadiest walk, her arm linked through his. I would have stepped aside, but she saw and beckoned to me.
"'Doctor,' she said, 'I can never even try to thank you enough for what you have done for me. I know last night I must have come to you during my attack; I do not remember that, but I know you cured me. And I feel that this cure will last, for I have something to live for and to remain well for.' She glanced at her fiance shyly. 'So, as no words can thank you I want to give you a little memento of my gratitude,' she said. From the bosom of her gown she pulled a solitary flower. 'Wear this for my sake and in token of my thanks,' she said.
"I took the flower and fastened it to my coat. Then, feeling that her gaze was bent upon mine, I looked up. For one fleeting moment I could see the soft tenderness of Marion's eyes. Then they were gone, and those of the young girl shone forth happily. I turned and went across the common, leaving them there. She married him soon after, I believe, but I have never seen them since."
Neither of us had stirred while Brodsky told us his tale. Once or twice I caught gleams of emotion in the stranger's eyes, but we had listened silently, absorbed by the simple story. And neither of us could have been able to doubt it.
It had grown so late that even the lights of the hotel had been extinguished. The night air blew softly upon us from the broad bosom of the lake and seemed to bear upon its breath some lingering odor of roses. The stranger rose, came toward the doctor, and took him by both hands.
"You have unwittingly given me back my faith," he said. "For I know now who it was that my wife called upon when she lay dying, and why, and who it was that called. You gave her to me. Ivan Brodsky, have you forgotten me?"
The last story of this series, "The Ultimate Problem," will be published in Weird Tales next month.
Advice
By Frank Belknap Long, Jr.
Down the stairs and up the street
The kobolds go on silent feet;
And two by two the Fears parade
From portico to balustrade;
And stealing from a hidden place
The tiny goblins grin and race:
Carouse, my friend, with such as these
And shun the bloated things that wheeze!
