Old Dr. Pond nodded. "Mary," he said, "is my right hand, Professor."
"Of course," agreed the Professor. "I can see that."
He was seated again, and he leaned across to Mary confidentially, with an explanatory forefinger hovering.
"As I told your father, Miss Pond, it isn't necessary to go far back in the case," he said. "As a matter of fact, I took this case up— experimentally. The subject was a good one for a—well, call it a theory of mine, a new idea in pathology. You see? I wanted to try it on the dog before publishing it, and our young friend there"—he nodded at the back of the room and sank his voice—"he was the dog. You understand?"
Mary nodded, and the Professor smiled.
"Well," he said, "I have succeeded. The patient is convalescent, but—you see how he is. He has very little vital force, and also, occasionally, delusions. Merely ephemeral, you know, but delusions. He wants quiet chiefly, and very little else—just that atmosphere of repose and—er—peace which you can create for him, Miss Pond."
"These delusions," put in Dr. Pond, "are they of any special character!"
"H'm!" The Professor stroked his chin. "No," he said. "Curious, you know, but not symptomatic." His hard eye scanned the old doctor purposely. "Sometimes," he said slowly, "he thinks he has been dead, and that I brought him back to life."
"And he hates you for it," suggested Mary. The Professor stared at her in open astonishment.
"How on earth did you know that?" he cried.