“Dr. Strong?”
“Well—yes—Dr. Strong if you will.”
“Of what place?”
“Any place—Calcutta, Paris, Mexico City, Philadelphia, Rio. I’ve tried ‘em all. I’m a man without a country, as I am without a profession.” He spoke with the unguarded bitterness of shaken nerves.
“Without a profession! But you said ‘Doctor.’”
“A title isn’t a profession,” returned the guest shortly.
Turning that over in his mind, Mr. Clyde led the way to a quiet table in the corner of the diningroom, where he gave his order. Observing that his new acquaintance was distrait, he swung into the easy conversational flow of a cultured man of the world, at the same time setting his keen judgment of men to work upon the other. There was much there to interest a close observer. The face indicated not much over thirty years; but there were harsh lines in the broad and thoughtful forehead, and the hair that waved away from it was irregularly blotched with gray. The eyes, very clear and liquid, were marred by an expression of restlessness and stress. The mouth was clear-cut, with an expression of rather sardonic humor. Altogether it was a face to remark and remember; keen, intellectual, humorous, and worn. Mr. Thomas Clyde decided that he liked the man.
“You’ve been a traveler, Doctor?” he asked.
“Yes. I’ve seen life in many countries—and death.”
“And traced the relations between them, I suppose?”