"That’s about it," I agreed, though conscious of a regret at having come at all. "Then the first thing I should suggest," he continued, never taking his penetrating eyes from my face, "is that you should see a doctor—a specialist—a neurologist. I’ll give you a line to Doctor Glegg—" "What would he do?" I ventured to question. "That would depend on whether or not you could pay for treatment. I presume, from what you’ve said of your funds giving out, that you couldn’t." "No, I couldn’t," I assented, reddening. "Then he’d probably put you for observation into the free psychopathic ward at Mount Olivet—" "Is that an insane-asylum?" "We don’t have insane-asylums nowadays; but in any case it isn’t what you mean. It’s a sanitarium for brain diseases—" "I shouldn’t want to go to a place like that." "Then what would you suggest doing?" "I thought—" But I was not sure as to what I had thought. Hazily I had imagined some Christian detective agency hunting up my family, restoring my name, and giving me back my check-book. It was probably on the last detail that unconsciously to myself I was laying the most emphasis. "I thought," I stammered, after a slight pause, "that—that you might be inclined to—to help me." "With money?" The question was so direct as to take me by surprise. "I didn’t know exactly how—" "An average of about fifteen people come to see me every day," he said, in his calm, business-like voice, "and of the fifteen about five are men. And of the five men an average of four come, with one plausible tale or other, to get money out of me under false pretenses." I shot out of my seat. The anger choking me was hardly allayed by the raising of his hand and his suave, "Sit down again." He went on quietly, as I sank back into my chair: "I only want you to see that with all men who come telling me strange tales my first impulse must be suspicion." Indignation almost strangled me. "And—and—am I to understand that—that it’s suspicion—now?" "So long as money is a factor in the case it must be—till everything is explained." "But everything _is_ explained." "To your satisfaction—possibly; but hardly to mine." "Then what explanation would be satisfactory to you?" "Oh, any of two or three. Since you decline to put yourself under Doctor Glegg, you might be able to offer some corroboration. "But I can’t. I’ve kept my secret so closely that no one has heard it but myself. The few people I know would be as incredulous as you are." "I don’t say that I’m incredulous; I’m only on my guard. Don’t you see? I have to be." "But surely when a man is speaking the truth his manner must carry some conviction."