"But," she cried, "you're alive."
"Ay," he said. "I'm alive. That's the doin' of that Fish. He's the man; proddin' and workin' away there in that big room of his with the bottles and machines, and bits of dead men on the tables. 'E thinks I'm a bit touched in the brain, but I know, I do! I remember all right that mornin', with the grey sky showin' over the wire blinds and the noise of the carts just beginnin' in the streets. There was sparkles in my eyes, flashes and colors, you know, and a feelin' as if I was all wet with warm water. I couldn't see at first, but by an' by I put up my 'and and cleared my eyes—all pins and needles, my 'and was. Then I got on my elbow, and saw—the room and the bottles and all, and me naked on a table under a big light. An' against the wall, at the other side o' the room, there was 'im—Fish—in a white- rubber gown and a face like chalk, shakin' an' sweatin' an' starin' at me. His eyes were all big an' flat; an' I lay there an' looked at him, while he bit his lips an' got a hold on himself. At last 'e come over to me. ''Ow are you feeling?' 'e says. I'd been thinking. 'You devil, you've brought me back,' I shouted. He was shakin' still like a flag in the wind. 'Yes,' he says, 'unless I'm mad, I've brought you back.' I 'adn't the strength to do no more than lie still; so I just watched 'im while 'e got brandy and drank it from the bottle. Oh, I remember; I remember the whole thing. That Fish can fool you an' old Pond, but there's no foolin' me. I know!"
He leaned forward and spat; the gesture emphasised the hard deliberation of his speech. The look he gave her now was much more assured than her own.
"We must be getting back," Mary said uneasily. She remembered what Professor Fish had mentioned of Smith's delusions. But the strangeness and assurance of what he had said were not in accord with what she knew of unstable minds.
He rose and accompanied her docilely enough, but the strength that had furnished him with force to speak seemed to last only while he was in the churchyard. As they went along the quiet road he was again the flimsy, unlovely shell of a man she had first known. They went slowly, for Mary accommodated her gait to his; he walked weakly, looking down always. Where the road passed the end of the village a few people turned to look after them with slow curiosity. The village policeman, chin in hand, stared with bovine intensity; his big, simple face was clenched in careful observation. Mary recalled Harry Wylde's story, and his warning that the authorities had been seeking for Smith; she quickened her pace a little to get out of that mild publicity.
"What were you before you—before you met Professor Fish?" she asked him suddenly.
"A bettin' tout," he answered, "and a thief." He spoke absently and with complete composure.
"Well," said Mary, "will you do something for me if I ask you?"
He looked aside at her. "Don't ask," he said. "Don't ask me to do anything. 'Cos I can't."
"It's only this," said Mary. "What you told me in the churchyard was very wonderful and dreadful; but even if it was true, it would be a bad thing for you to think much about. It couldn't help you to live; it could only come between you and being well. So I want you, as far as you can, not to think about it. Try to forget it. Will you?"