He was talking to what he felt was not an undivided attention in Mr. Gerald, who said, “I’m glad of it,” and then added:  “I should like to consult you professionally.  I know your reputation in New York—­though I’m not a New-Yorker myself—­and I don’t know any of the doctors here.  I suppose I’ve done rather a wild thing in coming off the way I have, with my daughter; but I felt that I must do something, and I hoped—­I felt as if it were getting away from our trouble.  It’s most fortunate my meeting you, if you can look into the case, and help me out with a nurse, if she’s needed, and all that!” To a certain hesitation in Lanfear’s face, he added:  “Of course, I’m asking your professional help.  My name is Abner Gerald—­Abner L. Gerald—­perhaps you know my standing, and that I’m able to—­”

“Oh, it isn’t a question of that!  I shall be glad to do anything I can,” Lanfear said, with a little pang which he tried to keep silent in orienting himself anew towards the girl, whose loveliness he had felt before he had felt her piteousness.

“But before you go further I ought to say that you must have been thinking of my uncle, the first Matthew Lanfear, when you spoke of my reputation; I haven’t got any yet; I’ve only got my uncle’s name.”

“Oh!” Mr. Gerald said, disappointedly, but after a blank moment he apparently took courage.  “You’re in the same line, though?”

“If you mean the psychopathic line, without being exactly an alienist, well, yes,” Lanfear admitted.

“That’s exactly what I mean,” the elder said, with renewed hopefulness.  “I’m quite willing to risk myself with a man of the same name as Dr. Lanfear.  I should like,” he said, hurrying on, as if to override any further reluctance of Lanfear’s, “to tell you her story, and then—­”

“By all means,” Lanfear consented, and he put on an air of professional deference, while the older man began with a face set for the task.

“It’s a long story, or it’s a short story, as you choose to make it.  We’ll make it long, if necessary, later, but now I’ll make it short.  Five months ago my wife was killed before my daughter’s eyes—­”

He stopped; Lanfear breathed a gentle “Oh!” and Gerald blurted out: 

“Accident—­grade crossing—­Don’t!” he winced at the kindness in Lanfear’s eyes, and panted on.  “That’s over!  What happened to her—­to my daughter—­was that she fainted from the shock.  When she woke—­it was more like a sleep than a swoon—­she didn’t remember what had happened.”  Lanfear nodded, with a gravely interested face.  “She didn’t remember anything that had ever happened before.  She knew me, because I was there with her; but she didn’t know that she ever had a mother, because she was not there with her.  You see?”

“I can imagine,” Lanfear assented.

“The whole of her life before the—­accident was wiped out as to the facts, as completely as if it had never been; and now every day, every hour, every minute, as it passes, goes with that past.  But her faculties—­”