The lady turned to her companion, and grasped his arm.
“What is it, Doctor Volney? Oh, what is it?” she moaned,
He led her to the door.
“Go to your room for a while,” I heard him say. “I will remain and talk with him. His mind? No, I think not—only a portion of the brain. Yes, I am sure he will recover. Go to your room and leave me with him.”
The lady disappeared. The man in dark clothes also went outside, still manicuring himself in a thoughtful way. I think he waited in the hall.
“I would like to talk with you a while, Mr. Pinkhammer, if I may,” said the gentleman who remained.
“Very well, if you care to,” I replied, “and will excuse me if I take it comfortably; I am rather tired.” I stretched myself upon a couch by a window and lit a cigar. He drew a chair nearby.
“Let us speak to the point,” he said, soothingly. “Your name is not Pinkhammer.”
“I know that as well as you do,” I said, coolly. “But a man must have a name of some sort. I can assure you that I do not extravagantly admire the name of Pinkhammer. But when one christens one’s self suddenly, the fine names do not seem to suggest themselves. But, suppose it had been Scheringhausen or Scroggins! I think I did very well with Pinkhammer.”
“Your name,” said the other man, seriously, “is Elwyn
