“I will not tell you his name,” whispered Dr. Sims, as the man, a thin, dark-haired, delicate-featured fellow, approached them; “but, if you should speak to him and chance to mention his name, he would respond ‘Ah! yes, I knew him. He was a man of talent, much talent.’ There is nothing left to him of his former life.”
And Zilah thought again that it was a fortunate lot to be attacked by one of these cerebral maladies where the entire being, with its burden of sorrows, is plunged into the deep, dark gulf of oblivion.
The novelist stopped before the two physicians.
“The mid-day train was three minutes and a half late,” he said, quietly: “I mention the fact to you, doctor, that you may have it attended to. It is a very serious thing; for I am in the habit of setting my watch by that train.”
“I will see to it,” replied Dr. Sims. “By the way, do you want any books?”
In the same quiet tone the other responded:
“What for?”
“To read.”
“What is the use of that?”
“Or any newspapers? To know—”