Now that he remembered, he had come away from White Plains hoping, indeed, never to see the place again, but undeniably a different man physically.  It was not the habit of Professor Muldoon to let his patients loaf; but Mr. Peters, after the initial plunge, had needed no driving.  He had worked hard at his cure then, because it was the job in hand.  He worked hard now, under the guidance of Ashe, because, once he had begun, the thing interested and gripped him.

Ashe, who had expected continued reluctance, had been astonished and delighted at the way in which the millionaire had behaved.  Nature had really intended Ashe for a trainer; he identified himself so thoroughly with his man and rejoiced at the least signs of improvement.

In Mr. Peters’ case there had been distinct improvement already.  Miracles do not happen nowadays, and it was too much to expect one who had maltreated his body so consistently for so many years to become whole in a day; but to an optimist like Ashe signs were not wanting that in due season Mr. Peters would rise on stepping-stones of his dead self to higher things, and though never soaring into the class that devours lobster a la Newburg and smiles after it, might yet prove himself a devil of a fellow among the mutton chops.

“You’re a wonder!” said Mr. Peters.  “You’re fresh, and you have no respect for your elders and betters; but you deliver the goods.  That’s the point.  Why, I’m beginning to feel great!  Say, do you know I felt a new muscle in the small of my back this morning?  They are coming out on me like a rash.”

“That’s the Larsen Exercises.  They develop the whole body.”

“Well, you’re a pretty good advertisement for them if they need one.  What were you before you came to me—­a prize-fighter?”

“That’s the question everybody I have met since I arrived here has asked me.  I believe it made the butler think I was some sort of crook when I couldn’t answer it.  I used to write stories—­ detective stories.”

“What you ought to be doing is running a place over here in England like Muldoon has back home.  But you will be able to write one more story out of this business here, if you want to.  When are you going to have another try for my scarab?”

“To-night.”

“To-night?  How about Baxter?”

“I shall have to risk Baxter.”

Mr. Peters hesitated.  He had fallen out of the habit of being magnanimous during the past few years, for dyspepsia brooks no divided allegiance and magnanimity has to take a back seat when it has its grip on you.

“See here,” he said awkwardly; “I’ve been thinking this over lately—­and what’s the use?  It’s a queer thing; and if anybody had told me a week ago that I should be saying it I wouldn’t have believed him; but I am beginning to like you.  I don’t want to get you into trouble.  Let the old scarab go.  What’s a scarab anyway?  Forget about it and stick on here as my private Muldoon.  If it’s the five thousand that’s worrying you, forget that too.  I’ll give it to you as your fee.”