“It is a case that we have all taken much interest in,” he said. “If you could have seen him when he arrived here, you would be assured by his present appearance that we have taken good care of him. But you have made a long journey to find a father, and I will not keep you waiting. For some weeks this patient has been going in and out at his own pleasure, under the necessary restrictions; but his favorite place is the sunny courtyard. To avoid exciting him unduly, I think the best plan will be to induce him to walk in the courtyard; and we three will then walk quietly through. That will give the best opportunity to see whether you can identify him, or whether he will recognize you.”
“You know best about that, sir,” Kit answered.
The surgeon tapped his bell, and in a moment an attendant entered—the same one who had held the flags in front of the patient long before.
“I want you to get John Doe into the courtyard for a walk,” the surgeon said. “This gentleman hopes to identify him, and in a few minutes we will walk through the yard. But give the patient no hint that anything unusual is happening. Just ask him out for a walk; he is always ready for a walk in the sun.”
“I must caution you,” the surgeon said to Kit after the attendant had gone to execute his order, “that in these cases of suspended memory we have to be prepared for almost anything. Nothing is surprising. If the patient proves to be your father, he may recognize you at once, and the shock may restore his lost memory in an instant. On the other hand, he may not recognize you at all. Or if he does, he may treat you as if you had left him only a few minutes before—as if your being here was a perfectly natural thing. If he knows you at all, it is an extremely favorable indication. With one little beginning, his whole past will almost certainly come back to him.”
As they walked through the long corridor toward the door that was to admit them to the courtyard, Kit felt his heart beating against his ribs as though trying to break them. The consul said something, but it made no impression upon him. He heard footsteps on the stone pavement outside, and tried to recognize them, but could not. The surgeon threw open the door, and they stepped out.
At the farther end of the yard, where the sun shone brightest, “John Doe” was walking slowly up and down, with his hands clasped behind him.
“That is my father!” Kit said very quietly.
It surprised him that he could speak so coolly, for he felt anything but cool. The moisture in his eyes was beyond his control; but he had firmly made up his mind that he would make no scene, whatever happened. He had too often been disgusted at seeing bearded Frenchmen hug and kiss each other like school-girls; he would have none of that—at least not in public.
For a moment neither of his companions spoke. They appreciated his feelings and gave him time to collect himself. But the consul’s hand stole into his and gave him a warm grip. Then another hand; that was the surgeon’s.