He pushed a footstool under the old man's feet, removed the fur-lined overcoat and took it away. Then standing in front of him he again said:—
"Sir, you are not yourself to-day."
"The old thing, Helps," said Mr. Paget. He shook himself free of some kind of trance with an effort. "The doctors said I should be quite well again, as well as ever. They are mistaken, I shall never be quite well. I saw him in the street just now, Helps."
"Indeed, sir?"
It was Helps' rôle as much as possible to humor his patient.
"Yes, I saw him just now—he takes many guises; he was in a new one to-day—a starved clerk out of employment. That was his guise to-day. I should not have recognized him but for his hand. Perhaps you remember Wyndham's hand, Helps? Very slender, long and tapered—the hand of a musician. He took a ragged child in his arms, and his hand—there was nothing weak about it—clasped another child who was also starved and hungry. Undoubtedly it was Wyndham—Wyndham in a new guise—he will never leave me alone."
"If I were you, Mr. Paget," said Helps after a pause. "I'd open the letters that are waiting for replies. You know what the doctor said, that when the fancy came you mustn't dwell on it. You must be sure and certain not to let it take a hold on you, sir. Now you know, just as well as I do, that you didn't see poor Mr. Wyndham—may Heaven preserve his soul! Is it likely now, sir, that a spirit like Mr. Wyndham's, happy above the sky with the angels, would come down on earth to trouble and haunt you? Is it likely now, sir? If I were you I'd cast the fancy from me!"
Mr. Paget raised his hand to sweep back the white hair from his hollow, lined face.
"You believe in heaven then, Helps?"
"I do for some folks, sir. I believe in it for Mr. Gerald Wyndham."