'He looks to me as if he were dead.'
'That's not surprising, considering that for eight-and-twenty days he's tasted neither bite nor sup.'
'Is that really the case?'
'Certainly. He hasn't had so much as a drop of water. The case is locked; the key is in possession of the manager of the Aquarium. Doctors are constantly in and out to see there's no collusion. You'll find their reports outside. It's will-power does it. He wills that he shall go to sleep for thirty days, and he goes to sleep for thirty days. To try to wake him up before the end of the thirty days, to give him, say, a glass of water, would probably cause his death.'
'That's very curious.'
'It's more than curious; it's the greatest marvel of the age.'
'And when does he wake?'
'At ten o'clock on Saturday evening next--in the presence of the manager and staff of the Aquarium, and a large representative body of distinguished medical gentlemen. It will be the sensation of the hour. Though we shall charge double prices for admission, the room won't hold the people.'
I wondered. At present there seemed a good deal of space to spare.
'What is his name?'