The homeward journey was begun, and the wheels kept on repeating:  “A father and a mother and a sister, too.”  DeGolyer did not permit himself to think.  His mind had a thousand quickenings, but he killed them.  Young Witherspoon looked in awe at the luxury of the sleeping-car; he gazed at the floor as if he wondered how it could be scrubbed.  At first he refused to sit on the showy plush, and even after DeGolyer’s soothing and affectionate words had relieved his fear of giving offense, he jumped to his feet when the porter came through the car, and in a trembling fright begged his companion to protect him against the anger of the head waiter.

“Sit down, my dear boy.  He is not a head waiter—­he is your servant.”

“Is he?”

“Yes, and must wait on you.”

At this he doubtfully shook his head, and he continued to watch the porter until assured that he was not offended, and then timidly offered to shake hands with him.

When bed-time came young Witherspoon refused to take off his clothes.  He was afraid that some one might steal them, and no argument served to reassure him; and even after he had lain down, with his clothes on, he took off a red neck-tie which he had insisted upon wearing, and for greater security put it into his pocket.  DeGolyer lay beside him, and for a time Witherspoon was quiet, but suddenly he rose up and began to mutter.

“What’s the matter, Henry?”

“Not Henry—­Hank.  Henry’s dead.”

“Well, what’s the matter, Hank?”

“Want my hat.”

“It’s up there.  We’ll get it in the morning.”

“Want it now.”

DeGolyer got his hat for him, and he lay with it on his breast.  How dragging a night it was!  Would the train never run from under the darkness out into the light of day?  And sometimes, when the train stopped, DeGolyer fancied that it had run ahead of night and perversely was waiting for the darkness to catch up.  The end was coming, and what an end it might be!

The day was dark and rainy; the landscape was a flat dreariness.  A buzzard flapped his heavy wings and flew from a dead tree; a yelping dog ran after the train; a horse, turned out to die, stumbled along a stumpy road.

It was evening when the train reached Chicago.  DeGolyer and young Witherspoon took a cab and were driven to a hospital.  The case was explained to the physician in charge.  He said that the mental trouble might not be due to any permanent derangement of the brain; it was evident that he had not been treated properly.  The patient’s nervous system was badly shattered.  The case was by no means hopeless.  He could not determine the length of time it might require to restore him to physical health, which meant, he thought, a mental cure as well.

“Three months?” DeGolyer asked.

“That long, at least.”

“I will leave him with you, and I urge you not to stop short of the highest medical skill that can be procured in either this country or in Europe.  As to who this young man is or may turn out to be, that must be kept as a secret.  I will call every day.  Henry”—­