Nurse Robbins entered with apologies. A case upstairs demanded the doctor's instant attendance. Dr. Devonham was engaged.
"One thing," insisted Father Collins, as they shook hands and he got up to go, "one thing only you would have to fear." He was very earnest. Evidently the signs of struggle, of fierce conflict in the other's face he did not notice.
"And that is?" A hand was on the door.
"If successful—if we provide this means of expression for him—we provide also the means of losing him."
"Death?" He opened the door with rough, unnecessary violence.
"Escape. He would no longer need the body he now uses. He would remember—and be gone. In his place you would have—LeVallon again only. I'm afraid," he added, "that he already is remembering——!"
His final words, as Nurse Robbins deftly hastened his departure in the hall, were a promise to communicate the results of his further reflections, and a suggestion that his cottage by the river would be a quiet spot in which to talk the matter over again.
But Dr. Fillery, having thanked Nurse Robbins for her prompt attendance to his bell, returned to the room and sat for some time in a strange confusion of anxious thoughts. A singular idea took shape in him—that Father Collins had again robbed his mind of its unspoken content. That sensitive receptive nature had first perceived, then given form to the vague, incoherent dreams that lurked in the innermost recesses of his hidden self.
Yet, if that were so——and if "N. H." already was "remembering"——!
A wave of shadow crept upon him, darkening his hope, his enthusiasm, his very life. For another part of him knew quite well the value to be attributed to what Father Collins had said.