"That would depend on whether or not you could pay for treatment. I presume, from what you've said of your funds giving out, that you couldn't."
"No, I couldn't," I assented, reddening.
"Then he'd probably put you for observation into the free psychopathic ward at Mount Olivet—"
"Is that an insane-asylum?"
"We don't have insane-asylums nowadays; but in any case it isn't what you mean. It's a sanitarium for brain diseases—"
"I shouldn't want to go to a place like that."
"Then what would you suggest doing?"
"I thought—" But I was not sure as to what I had thought. Hazily I had imagined some Christian detective agency hunting up my family, restoring my name, and giving me back my check-book. It was probably on the last detail that unconsciously to myself I was laying the most emphasis. "I thought," I stammered, after a slight pause, "that—that you might be inclined to—to help me."
"With money?"
The question was so direct as to take me by surprise.