The great hand clenched tighter. "Now I know you are crazy, or—Who are you?" he ended abruptly.
"Hilary Grendon."
"Hilary Grendon—Hilary Grendon," rumbled the other in manifest perplexity. It was evident the name meant nothing to him.
This then was the homecoming he had dreamed of in the unfathomable reaches of space. Hilary thought bitterly. Five short years and he was already forgotten. Then the irony of it struck him, and he laughed aloud.
"Yes," he said. "Five years ago I led the Grendon Expedition to explore interplanetary space in the space-ship I had invented. I've come back—alone."
It was amazing to watch long-overlaid memories struggling up through the subconscious. At last the giant spoke.
"Oh, yes," he said meditatively, "I seem to remember something about it." He surveyed Hilary with a new interest. "So you were one of those chaps, eh?"
The explorer admitted it, humbly. Of such are the uses of fame.
"Well, now," said the giant, "that might explain it. Though it sure beats all." And he shook his head as though he still did not understand.
"Who is that man?" Hilary stabbed a forefinger at the blind man, who sat immobile as before, his worn etched face ever to the front. "It's monstrous. Amos Peabody shall hear of it."