“Doubtless this seems to you a very commonplace ‘ghost story’—one constructed on the regular lines laid down by the old masters of the art. If that were so I should not have related it, even if it were true. The man was not dead; I met him to-day in Union street. He passed me in a crowd.”
Hawver had finished his story and both men were silent. Dr. Frayley absently drummed on the table with his fingers.
“Did he say anything to-day?” he asked—“anything from which you inferred that he was not dead?”
Hawver stared and did not reply.
“Perhaps,” continued Frayley, “he made a sign, a gesture—lifted a finger, as in warning. It’s a trick he had—a habit when saying something serious—announcing the result of a diagnosis, for example.”
“Yes, he did—just as his apparition had done. But, good God! did you ever know him?”
Hawver was apparently growing nervous.
“I knew him. I have read his book, as will every physician some day. It is one of the most striking and important of the century’s contributions to medical science. Yes, I knew him; I attended him in an illness three years ago. He died.”
Hawver sprang from his chair, manifestly disturbed. He strode forward and back across the room; then approached his friend, and in a voice not altogether steady, said: “Doctor, have you anything to say to me—as a physician?”
“No, Hawver; you are the healthiest man I ever knew. As a friend I advise you to go to your room. You play the violin like an angel. Play it; play something light and lively. Get this cursed bad business off your mind.”