"Yes," spoke Cleo quickly. "Did you ever know the name, Professor?"
"I may have, child. You see, my brain, as it grows stronger, fancies it knows many more things than it really does. The cells seem to be jealous of each other, and they keep prodding me to recognize their claims on memory, one before the other, as quickly as any new, interesting topic is mentioned. But the doctors here know, and I am certain they will untangle the snarl presently. Then, Mary-love, we may be able to trace our lost prize." He kissed her forehead to make the hope more emphatic, and she, leaning close to him in his big chair, tilted her head nearer still, acknowledging the caress.
"Perhaps you may have known some of Uncle Guy Dunbar's people," suggested Cleo. "I know they were all scientists. Uncle Guy is a writer, you know." She was addressing the professor.
"It might be, little girl," he replied, a thoughtful look overspreading his handsome, scholarly face. "But, Mary, dear, how is the studio?" he asked.
"Just lovely, Grandie. Everything is behaving beautifully, and we go every day to attend to things——"
"Doesn't Reda look after things properly?"
"Oh, yes, certainly," Cleo answered before Mary could do so. She saw the professor was ignorant of the changes at the studio, and wisely guessed he should not be taxed with too many cares, without permission from the sanitarium nurse. Mary took Cleo's cue quickly, and, after making a few general comments, tactfully changed the subject.
Then remembering Mary had planned some secret for the professor, Cleo stepped out in the hall, ostensibly to read a big, framed testimonial, but really to give Mary some time alone with him. A nurse stepped up to Cleo and spoke very cordially.
"Isn't he wonderfully better?" asked the white gowned young woman, with the capable air, so characteristic of professional women.
"Yes, he seems greatly improved," replied Cleo.