The
black hair gave him a clue. It was hair like that he had seen as Reuben
S. Vanderpoel's daughter rode by when he stood at the park gates at
Mount Dunstan. "Bats in his belfry," of course.
"How is he?" she said to the nurse.
"He's been seeming comfortable all day, miss," the woman answered, "but
he's light-headed yet. He opened his eyes quite sensible looking a bit
ago, but he spoke queer. He said something was the limit, and that we
might search him."
Betty approached the bedside to look at him, and meeting the disturbed
inquiry in his uplifted eyes, laughed, because, seeing that he was not
delirious, she thought she understood. She had not lived in New York
without hearing its argot, and she realised that the exclamation which
had appeared delirium to Mrs. Buttle had probably indicated that the
unexplainableness of the situation in which G. Selden found himself
struck him as reaching the limit of probability, and that the most
extended search of his person would fail to reveal any clue to
satisfactory explanation.
She bent over him, with her laugh still shining in her eyes.
"I hope you feel better. Can you tell me?" she said.
His voice was not strong, but his answer was that of a young man who
knew what he was saying.
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