“I have been ‘Bellforded’ so often,” I said, “that it has lost its edge. Still, in the end, it may grow wearisome. Would you be willing at all to entertain the hypothesis that my name is Edward Pinkhammer, and that I never saw you before in my life?”
Before the man could reply a wailing cry came from the woman. She sprang past his detaining arm. “Elwyn!” she sobbed, and cast herself upon me, and clung tight. “Elwyn,” she cried again, “don’t break my heart. I am your wife—call my name once—just once. I could see you dead rather than this way.”
I unwound her arms respectfully, but firmly.
“Madam,” I said, severely, “pardon me if I suggest that you accept a resemblance too precipitately. It is a pity,” I went on, with an amused laugh, as the thought occurred to me, “that this Bellford and I could not be kept side by side upon the same shelf like tartrates of sodium and antimony for purposes of identification. In order to understand the allusion,” I concluded airily, “it may be necessary for you to keep an eye on the proceedings of the Druggists’ National Convention.”
The lady turned to her companion, and grasped his arm.
“What is it, Doctor Volney? Oh, what is it?” she moaned.
He led her to the door.
“Go to your room for a while,” I heard him say. “I will remain and talk with him. His mind? No, I think not—only a portion of the brain. Yes, I am sure he will recover. Go to your room and leave me with him.”
The lady disappeared. The man in dark clothes also went outside, still manicuring himself in a thoughtful way. I think he waited in the hall.
“I would like to talk with you a while, Mr. Pinkhammer, if I may,” said the gentleman who remained.