"Your name? I don't understand."
"Yes, the old chap was a great believer in patent medicines. He honestly thought the men who made them were philanthropists. He gave me the name of one of them." He laughed reminiscently. "I suppose I have one of the best known names in the world! I see it everywhere."
"And the old man...?"
"They didn't call it starvation—doctors never do name things right. I think I was about thirteen then. They tried to send me to an institution, but I ran away. I've shifted for myself since."
He lapsed into silence, and Judith could get no more out of him that day. He was too obviously busy with his memories.
One Sunday morning, about a month or so after the accident, Judith was struck by a whimsical idea. She broached it to her guest immediately.
"Mr. Good," she said at breakfast, "I have a favour to ask of you...."
"It's granted already," he said gallantly.
"Wait—it may not prove so easy. I know you don't care for church-going, but I want you to go with me—this morning."
He looked dejected. "I should be delighted—honestly. But look—" He indicated his old brown suit, which in spite of the constant and earnest endeavours of Roger's valet, still looked indisputably shabby.