He had seen too many freaks of fortune to be surprised at this.
“I thought,” he continued, “that there was something familiar about the back of your head. Back of a man's head never changes. It's a funny thing.”
He sat down in his usual chair, and looked with a cheery smile upon him who had risen from the death column of the Times. Then he turned to his pipe.
“You know, Agar,” he said, “I was beastly sorry about that—death of yours. Cut me up wonderfully for a few minutes. That is saying a lot in these days.”
Agar laughed.
“It is very kind of you to say so,” he said rather awkwardly.
“And I,” added Dr. Ruthine from behind the whisky and soda tray, in the deliberate voice of a man who is saying something with an effort, “felt that it was a pity. That is how it struck me—a pity.”
Then, very disjointedly, and in a manner which could scarcely be set down here, Major James Agar told his singular story. There are—thank heaven!—many such stories still untold; there are, one would be inclined to hope, many such still uncommenced. As a nation we may be on the decline, but there is something to go on with in us yet.
Once when the narrator paused, Dr. Ruthine went to the side table and opened some bottles.
“Whisky?” he inquired, with curt hospitality, “or anything else your fancy may paint, down to tea.”