“Madam,” I said, severely, “pardon me if I suggest that you accept a
resemblance too precipitately. It is a pity,” I went on, with an amused
laugh, as the thought occurred to me, “that this Bellford and I could
not be kept side by side upon the same shelf like tartrates of sodium
and antimony for purposes of identification. In order to understand the
allusion,” I concluded airily, “it may be necessary for you to keep an
eye on the proceedings of the Druggists’ National Convention.”
The lady turned to her companion, and grasped his arm.
“What is it, Doctor Volney? Oh, what is it?” she moaned.
He led her to the door.
“Go to your room for a while,” I heard him say. “I will remain and talk
with him. His mind? No, I think not—only a portion of the brain. Yes, I
am sure he will recover. Go to your room and leave me with him.”
The lady disappeared. The man in dark clothes also went outside, still
manicuring himself in a thoughtful way. I think he waited in the hall.
“I would like to talk with you a while, Mr. Pinkhammer, if I may,” said
the gentleman who remained.
“Very well, if you care to,” I replied, “and will excuse me if I take
it comfortably; I am rather tired.” I stretched myself upon a couch by
a window and lit a cigar. He drew a chair nearby.
“Let us speak to the point,” he said, soothingly. “Your name is not
Pinkhammer.”
“I know that as well as you do,” I said, coolly. “But a man must have a
name of some sort. I can assure you that I do not extravagantly admire
the name of Pinkhammer. But when one christens one’s self suddenly, the
fine names do not seem to suggest themselves. But, suppose it had been
Scheringhausen or Scroggins! I think I did very well with Pinkhammer.”
“Your name,” said the other man, seriously, “is Elwyn C. Bellford. You
are one of the first lawyers in Denver. You are suffering from an
attack of aphasia, which has caused you to forget your identity. The
cause of it was over-application to your profession, and, perhaps, a
life too bare of natural recreation and pleasures. The lady who has
just left the room is your wife.”
“She is what I would call a fine-looking woman,” I said, after a
judicial pause. “I particularly admire the shade of brown in her hair.”
“She is a wife to be proud of. Since your disappearance, nearly two
weeks ago, she has scarcely closed her eyes. We learned that you were
in New York through a telegram sent by Isidore Newman, a traveling man
from Denver. He said that he had met you in a hotel here, and that you
did not recognize him.”
“I think I remember the occasion,” I said. “The fellow called me
‘Bellford,’ if I am not mistaken. But don’t you think it about time,
now, for you to introduce yourself?”
“I am Robert Volney—Doctor Volney. I have been your close friend for
twenty years, and your physician for fifteen. I came with Mrs. Bellford
to trace you as soon as we got the telegram. Try, Elwyn, old man—try to
remember!”
“What’s the use to try?” I asked, with a little frown. “You say you are
a physician. Is aphasia curable? When a man loses his memory does it
return slowly, or suddenly?”
“Sometimes gradually and imperfectly; sometimes as suddenly as it
went.”
“Will you undertake the treatment of my case, Doctor Volney?” I asked.
“Old friend,” said he, “I’ll do everything in my power, and will have
done everything that science can do to cure you.”
“Very well,” said I. “Then you will consider that I am your patient.
Everything is in confidence now—professional confidence.”
“Of course,” said Doctor Volney.
I got up from the couch. Some one had set a vase of white roses on the
centre table—a cluster of white roses, freshly sprinkled and fragrant.
I threw them far out of the window, and then I laid myself upon the
couch again.
“It will be best, Bobby,” I said, “to have this cure happen suddenly.
I’m rather tired of it all, anyway. You may go now and bring Marian in.
But, oh, Doc,” I said, with a sigh, as I kicked him on the shin—“good
old Doc—it was glorious!”
XIII
A MUNICIPAL REPORT
The cities are full of pride,
Challenging each to each—
This from her mountainside,
That from her burthened beach.