"Tell me one thing more, doctor, if you can. What was the motive? Was it just heavenly good-heartedness?—or——"
The doctor's smile was the least possible shade wintry.
"When you have lived a few years longer in this world of ours, you will not probe too deeply into motives; you will take the deed as the sufficient exponent of the prompting behind it. If I say so much, you will understand that I am not impugning Miss Grierson's motives. There are times when she is the good angel of everybody in sight."
"And this is one of the times?" persisted the analyst.
"We shall say that this is one of the times: say it and stick to it, Mr.——"
The pause after the courtesy title was significant, and Griswold filled it promptly. "Griswold—Kenneth Griswold. Do you mean to say that you haven't known my name, doctor?"
"We have not. We took the Good Samaritan's privilege and ransacked your belongings—Miss Margery and I—thinking that there might be relatives or friends who should be notified."
"And you found nothing?" queried the sick man, a cold fear gripping at his heart.
"Absolutely nothing to tell us who you were; no cards, letters, or memoranda of any kind. The conclusion was obvious: some one had taken advantage of your illness on the train and had picked your pockets."
Griswold moistened his lips and swallowed hard. "There were two suit-cases: were they lost?"