A knock at the door broke in upon them. Mrs. Bowse presented herself, wearing a novel expression on her face. It was at once puzzled and not altogether disagreeably excited.
“I wish you would come down into the dining-room, Little Ann.” She hesitated. “Mr. Tembaron's brought home such a queer man. He picked him up ill in the street. He wants me to let him stay with him for the night, anyhow. I don't think he's crazy, but I guess he's lost his memory. Queerest thing I ever saw. He doesn't know his name or anything.”
“See here,” broke out Hutchinson, dropping his hands and his paper on his knee, “I'm not going to have Ann goin' down stairs to quiet lunatics.”
“He's as quiet as a child,” Mrs. Bowse protested. “There's something pitiful about him, he seems so frightened. He's drenched to the skin.”
“Call an ambulance and send him to the hospital,” advised Hutchinson.
“That's what Mr. Tembarom says he can't do. It frightens him to death to speak of it. He just clings to Mr. Tembarom sort of awful, as if he thinks he'll save his life. But that isn't all,” she added in an amazed tone; “he's given Mr. Tembarom more than two thousand dollars.”
“What!” shouted Hutchinson, bounding to his feet quite unconsciously.
“What!” exclaimed Little Ann.
“Just you come and look at it,” answered Mrs. Bowse, nodding her head. “There's over two thousand dollars in bills spread out on the table in the dining-room this minute. He had it in a belt pocket, and he dragged it out in the street and would make Mr. Tembarom take it. Do come and tell us what to do.”
“I'd get him to take off his wet clothes and get into bed, and drink some hot spirits and water first,” said Little Ann. “Wouldn't you, Mrs. Bowse?”