“That other name,” he said, “say it.”
I was surprised that after his experience he did not clutch my arm, but instead the chair and clung to it as if that were a part of his resolve. The poor, heroic effort at self-control was touching and I answered in a kinder tone.
“Other name? There isn’t any other name. I want you to sit close to the fire and take off your coat and shoes; then we’ll talk. See, I’ll put a fresh log on.”
“Say that name,” he repeated, and already I could see his will power tottering. It had been strong enough for a request but not for continued insistence.
“I think you must remember Dennheimer,” I said, “and I know of no other name. Of course, you knew Dennheimer.”
He shook his head.
“Well,” I persisted, “it is more important to get dry and warm. I wonder how you found your way here in such a night.”
“I can find my way anywhere,” he said; “I had to find my way to ask about the name.”
I was puzzled.
“You mean your own name—Tasso?” I ventured.