But his mind was gone. A harmless type of insanity expressing itself in vague reiterations of a fixed idea.
Day after day he walked in the open—Once on and on, down a slope. He slipped. And made a violent clutch to save himself. The cold waters of the river closed over him. Shock and sudden pain—the penetrating pain that comes with returning consciousness—
He began to struggle, got his stroke and swam.
Did you kill the Banker Brunton, the physician inquired gently.
The Banker Brunton—Hale asked curiously—I never heard of him.
A train of thought seemed starting.
But I remember a woman—she dropped her muff—I stooped to pick it up
She must have struck me—
Or was it her eyes!