But I was not admitted. I was not acquainted with him, and had no plausible excuse for wishing to see him. So I went to Sullivan, my old shipmate, and explained the case, at the same time telling him of my wonderful cure, and my wish to secure to him the services of the kindly man who had served me. "Won't let you in?" he cried. "I'll see about that. Just come along wi' me up to Tammany Hall, an' I'll see if a fri'nd o' Jack Sullivan is to be barred out of any public institution in this burg." We started, and as our way led past the apartment of the professor, I suggested that we stop and endeavor to take him along, as, if all went well, the thing could be done in a few moments. Luckily we found him at home, packing up for the road. His engagement was ended, and he would leave town that evening; but, when I had explained about the poor fellow at Bellevue, whose case was worse than my own, his kindly brown eyes lit up with a fellow sympathy, and he came with us. We took a cab, and Jack and I occupied the forward seat, while the professor sat opposite. As we rode along, I noticed that he furtively glanced into Jack's seamy face, and occasionally, and as furtively, into mine, while a doubtful, thoughtful expression stole over his own. But he uttered no word during that ride, and indeed there was hardly a chance, for Jack kept the atmosphere sulphurous with his comments on the insolence of the doctors at Bellevue. At Tammany Hall Jack went in, and what he said or did in there I do not know; but he soon came out, waving a pass to the hospital, and still swearing. We soon reached Bellevue, and were readily admitted and led to the ward containing the hopelessly insane. And here we were at a loss as to which of the fifty or more patients was our man. The one nurse there did not know the pathology of a single case in the ward; but he went to inquire, and brought back the visiting physician whom I had met in the car. He recognized me, heard my story, was introduced to Jack and the professor, and said to the latter: "If you have restored this man's memory, sir, you may succeed with our man. I am perfectly willing you should try. We have always failed. I suppose you want a quiet room. Come with me, and I will send for the man." He led us into a small, vacant bedroom, containing, beside the bed, a washstand and one chair. The doctor called for more chairs, and then said: "It is best perhaps that you should know something about him before he arrives, as he is intelligent and sensitive in his present personality. Besides his utter loss of memory, he carries the strangest antipathy to cats and dogs--" And here, as though in confirmation of the description, a huge cat bounded into the room, followed by a frenzied-eyed man, who uttered incoherent snarls and growls, as he endeavored to catch the cat. "That's the man," said the doctor. "Look out."