"Did you really ever know of such a person?"
The kindly man shook his head. "I can't say that I really did. But the name sounds—"
The young man turned away as if to say, "That will do." He lifted to the seat beside him the smaller of his bags and opened it. Upon the top of a pile of fine, smoothly folded clothes lay three old magazines, bound in pale covers which were now dull with age. In each one he opened to an anonymous article. "The Roses of Pæstum," an essay, was one; "Bitter Bread," a story, was another. The third was a long poem, "Storm." He opened them, evidently without any intention of exhibiting them to his neighbor, but with the purpose of furnishing some reassurance to himself. Having looked at them earnestly one after the other, he returned them to the bag, closed it, and set it on the floor. Once more he appealed to the man behind him.
"You're sure you don't know anything about any Evermans?"
"I'm afraid I don't, sir. But—"
The young man took a little notebook from his pocket and wrote in it a few words which his neighbor, curiously peering over his shoulder, could see plainly. "Approach to shrine. A prophet in his own country." The inscription made the observer feel a vague mortification.
"You might ask the conductor," he suggested.
"Thank you," was the solemn answer. Then, in slightly uneven script, the stranger added to his notes, "Ask the conductor," and placed an exclamation point after the words.
The conductor, approaching from the rear, was halted and the question put.
"Did you ever hear the name Basil Everman?"