The doctor appeared to accept the statement. As the three approached the bed Mrs. Bogardus leaned heavily upon her son. Paul released his arm and placed it firmly around her. He felt her shudder. “Mother,” he said to her with an indescribable accent that tore her heart. The doctor began his examination. He addressed his patient as “Mr. Bogardus.” “Mistake,” said a low, husky voice from the bed. “This ain't the man.” Doctor Gainsworth pursued his investigations. “What is your name?” he asked the patient suddenly. The hunted eyes turned with ghastly appeal upon the faces around him. “Paul, speak to him! Own your father,” Mrs. Bogardus whispered passionately. “It is for him to speak now,” said Paul. “When he is well, Doctor,” he added aloud, “he will know his own name.” “This man will never be well,” the doctor answered. “If there is anything to prove, for or against the identity you claim for him, it will have to be done within a very few days.” Doctor Gainsworth rose and held out his hand. He was a man of delicate perceptions. His respect at that moment for Mrs. Bogardus, though founded on blindest conjecture, was an emotion which the mask of his professional manner could barely conceal. “As a friend, Mrs. Bogardus, I hope you will command me--but you need no doctor here.” “As a friend I ask you to believe me,” she said. “This man _is_ my husband. He came back here because this was his home. I cannot tell you any more, but this we expect you and every one who knows”-- The dissenting voice from the bed closed her assertion with a hoarse “No! Not the man.” “Good-by, Mrs. Bogardus,” said the doctor. “Don't trouble to explain. You and I have lived too long and seen too much of life not to recognize its fatalities: the mysterious trend in the actions of men and women that cannot be comprised in--in the locking of a door.” “It is of little consequence--what was done, compared to what was not done.” This was all the room for truth she could give herself to turn in. The doctor did not try to understand her: yet she had snatched a little comfort from merely uttering the words. Paul and the doctor dined together, Mrs. Bogardus excusing herself. “There seems to be an impression here,” said the doctor, examining the initials on his fish-fork, “that your mother is indulging an overstrained fancy in this melancholy resemblance she has traced. It does not appear to have made much headway as a fact, which rather surprises me in a country neighborhood. Possibly your doctor here, who seems a very good fellow, has wished to spare the family any unnecessary explanations. If you'll let me advise you, Paul, I would leave it as it is,--open to conjecture. But, in whatever shape this impression may reach you from outside, I hope you won't let it disturb you in the least, so far as it describes your mother's condition. She is one of the few well-balanced women I have had the honor to know.” Paul did not take advantage of the doctor's period. He went on.