It was some minutes before Maitland fully regained his composure, and during that time neither of us spoke.  “Well, Doc,” he said at length, and his manner was decidedly grave, even for him: 

“What do you make of it?” I didn’t know what to make of it, and I admitted my ignorance with a frankness at which, considering my profession, I have often since had occasion to marvel.  I told him that I could scarcely account for it on the ground of mere coincidence, and I called his attention to that part of “The Mystery of Marie Roget,” where Poe figures out the mathematical likelihood of a certain combination of peculiarities of clothing being found to obtain in the case of two young women who were unknown to each other.  If the finding of a single reference to Cleopatra had been a thing of so infrequent occurrence as to at once challenge Maitland’s attention, what was to be said when, all of a sudden, her name, or some reference to her, seemed to stare at him from every page he read?

   “’There is something in this more than natural,
      If philosophy could find it out,’”

murmured Maitland, more to himself than to me.  “Come, what do you say?” and he turned abruptly to me with one of those searching looks so peculiar to him in moments of excitement.  “I see,” I replied, “that you are determined I shall give my opinion now and here, without a moment’s reflection.  Very well; you have just quoted ‘Hamlet’; I will do likewise: 

   “’There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio,
     Than are dreamt of in your philosophy!’

“You seem in some strange way to be dominated by the shade of Cleopatra.  Now, if I believed in metempsychosis, I should think you were Mark Antony brought down to date.  There, with that present sober air of yours, you’d pass anywhere for such an anachronism.  But to be serious, and to give you advice which is positively bilious with gravity, I should say, investigate this thing fully; make a study of this ancient charmer.  By the way, why not begin by going to see Davenport in Sardou’s ‘Cleopatra’?  You have never seen her in it, have you?”

In this way, I succeeded in getting him out of his depressed state.  We got into an argument concerning the merits of Miss Davenport’s work.  I know of nothing Maitland would sooner do than argue, and, if attacked on a subject upon which he feels strongly, he is, for the time being, totally oblivious of everything else.  For this reason I trapped him into this argument.  I abominate what is now known as “realism” just as much as he does, but you don’t have much of an argument without some apparent difference of opinion, so, for the nonce, I became a realist of whom Zola himself would have been proud.  “Why, man,” I said, “realism is truth.  You certainly can’t have any quarrel with that.”  I knew this would have the effect of a red rag flaunted in the face of a bull.