"We found after a good deal of searching that one of the original manuscripts had been preserved. It was mailed from Waltonville, Pennsylvania, though the answer was to be sent to Baltimore. I had another errand here, and I was anxious to discover what I could about this contributor of twenty-five years ago, who promised such extraordinary things and who then, as far as we know, ceased to write. I belong to that class of biographers who believe that all is sacred and valuable in the development of genius. The facts of a writer's life are of transcendent importance. The power of imagination fails after a certain point, rather it does not begin until a certain degree of experience has been reached. A writer must have lived. I am hungry to know all you can tell me of Basil Everman. I mean to write about him at length." Utterly settled himself a little more comfortably in his chair. "You say that he is dead? How unfortunate!"
"Yes," said Dr. Lister slowly. "He has been dead for twenty years."
"Did he die here?"
"No. He died away from home in an epidemic. It was not possible to bring his body home. His death seriously affected my wife, who is his sister, and who lost her father about the same time. I never saw Basil Everman either in life or death."
"And you never knew or suspected that he wrote?"
"I never heard that he was supposed to have talent of any sort. He was very young."
"So was Keats when he wrote 'St. Agnes Eve.' Surely Basil Everman's sister knew about his talent!"
"I do not believe she ever knew that he had published any writings."
"May I see her?"
"I—I will see."