A man stood before him, apparently a stranger.
“I came quietly,” he said. “I did not wish to break in upon your thought. It interested me, and I felt that I—might be of help.”
Carringford was trying to recall the man’s face,—a studious, clean-shaven face,—to associate it and the black-garbed, slender figure with a name. So many frequented his apartment, congenial, idle fellows who came and went, and brought their friends if they liked, that Carringford was not surprised to be confronted by one he could not place. He was about to extend his hand, confessing a lack of memory, when his visitor spoke again.
“No,” he said in a gentle, composed voice, “you would not know it if you heard it. I have never been here before. I should not have come now only that, as I was passing below, I heard you thinking you would like to be young again—to live your life over, as they say.”
Carringford stared a moment or two at the smooth, clean-cut features and slender, black figure of his visitor before replying. He was used to many curious things, and not many things surprised him.
“I beg your pardon,” he repeated, “you mentioned, I believe, that you heard me thinking as you were passing on the street below?”
The slender man in black bowed.
“Wishing that you might be young again, that you might have another try at the game of life. I believe that was the exact thought.”
“And, may I ask, is it your habit to hear persons think?”
“When their thoughts interest me, yes, as one might overhear an interesting conversation.”