“My name is Edward Pinkhammer,” I said. “I came with the delegates to
the Druggists’ National Convention. There is a movement on foot for
arranging a new position for the bottles of tartrate of antimony and
tartrate of potash, in which, very likely, you would take little
interest.”
A shining landau stopped before the entrance. The lady rose. I took her
hand, and bowed.
“I am deeply sorry,” I said to her, “that I cannot remember. I could
explain, but fear you would not understand. You will not concede
Pinkhammer; and I really cannot at all conceive of the—the roses and
other things.”
“Good-by, Mr. Bellford,” she said, with her happy, sorrowful smile, as
she stepped into her carriage.
I attended the theatre that night. When I returned to my hotel, a quiet
man in dark clothes, who seemed interested in rubbing his finger nails
with a silk handkerchief, appeared, magically, at my side.
“Mr. Pinkhammer,” he said, giving the bulk of his attention to his
forefinger, “may I request you to step aside with me for a little
conversation? There is a room here.”
“Certainly,” I answered.
He conducted me into a small, private parlor. A lady and a gentleman
were there. The lady, I surmised, would have been unusually
good-looking had her features not been clouded by an expression of keen
worry and fatigue. She was of a style of figure and possessed coloring
and features that were agreeable to my fancy. She was in a traveling
dress; she fixed upon me an earnest look of extreme anxiety, and
pressed an unsteady hand to her bosom. I think she would have started
forward, but the gentleman arrested her movement with an authoritative
motion of his hand. He then came, himself, to meet me. He was a man of
forty, a little gray about the temples, and with a strong, thoughtful
face.
“Bellford, old man,” he said, cordially, “I’m glad to see you again. Of
course we know everything is all right. I warned you, you know, that
you were overdoing it. Now, you’ll go back with us, and be yourself
again in no time.”