It was evening when the train reached Chicago. DeGolyer and young Witherspoon took a cab and were driven to a hospital. The case was explained to the physician in charge. He said that the mental trouble might not be due to any permanent derangement of the brain; it was evident that he had not been treated properly. The patient's nervous system was badly shattered. The case was by no means hopeless. He could not determine the length of time it might require to restore him to physical health, which meant, he thought, a mental cure as well.
"Three months?" DeGolyer asked.
"That long, at least."
"I will leave him with you, and I urge you not to stop short of the highest medical skill that can be procured in either this country or in Europe. As to who this young man is or may turn out to be, that must be kept as a secret. I will call every day. Henry"—
"Hank."
"All right, Hank. Now, I'm going to leave you here, but I'll be back soon."
"No; they'll steal my clothes!" he cried, in alarm.
"No, they won't; they'll give you more clothes. You stay here, and I will bring you something when I come back."
DeGolyer went to a hotel.