Wearily he dragged his lame foot back to a hotel in the populous party of the city, and obtained food and wine, for he was terribly exhausted.  Next he telegraphed Mr. Kemble: 

“Arrived last evening.  The wedding will have to be postponed.  Will explain later.”

“It’s the best I can do now,” he muttered.  “Helen will think it is all due to my cousin’s illness.”  Then he returned to the hospital and found his relative in a state of wonderment at his absence, but refreshed from a good night’s rest.  Yankee Blank was nowhere to be seen.

“Hobart,” exclaimed his cousin, “you look ill—­ten years older than you did last night.”

“You see me now by daylight,” was the quiet reply.  “I am not very well.”

“It’s a perfect shame that I’ve been the cause of so much trouble, especially when it wasn’t necessary.”

“Oh, my God!” thought Martine, “there was even no need of this fatal journey.”  But his face had become grave and inscrutable, and the plea of ill-health reconciled his cousin to the necessity of immediate return.  There was no good reason for his remaining, for by a few additional arrangements his relative would do very well and soon be able to take care of himself.  Martine felt that he could not jeopardize his hard-won victory by delay, which was as torturing as the time intervening between a desperate surgical operation and the knowledge that it is inevitable.

After seeing that his cousin made a good breakfast, he sought a private interview with the wardmaster.  He was able to extract but little information about Yankee Blank more than the man had given himself.  “Doctors say he may regain his memory at any time, or it may be a long while, and possibly never,” was the conclusion.

“I think I know him,” said Martine.  “I will bring physician from the city to consult this morning with the surgeon in charge.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” was the reply.  “Something would have to be done soon.  He is just staying on here and making himself useful to some extent.”

When Martine re-entered the ward, Yankee Blank appeared, grinned, and said affably, “Howdy.”  Alas! a forlorn, miserable hope that he might have been mistaken was banished from Hobart’s mind now that he saw Nichol in the clear light of day.  The scar across his forehead and a change of expression, denoting the eclipse of fine, cultivated manhood, could not disguise the unmistakable features.  There was nothing to be done but carry out as quickly as possible the purpose which had cost him so dear.

He first telegraphed his uncle to dismiss further anxiety, and that his son would soon be able to visit him.  Then the heavy-hearted man sought a physician whom he knew well by reputation.