But
it's not my business."
He had seen too many freaks of fortune to be surprised at this.
"I thought," he continued, "that there was something familiar about the
back of your head. Back of a man's head never changes. It's a funny
thing."
He sat down in his usual chair, and looked with a cheery smile upon him
who had risen from the death column of the _Times_. Then he turned to his
pipe.
"You know, Agar," he said, "I was beastly sorry about that--death of
yours. Cut me up wonderfully for a few minutes. That is saying a lot in
these days."
Agar laughed.
"It is very kind of you to say so," he said rather awkwardly.
"And I," added Dr. Ruthine from behind the whisky and soda tray, in the
deliberate voice of a man who is saying something with an effort, "felt
that it was a pity. That is how it struck me--a pity."
Then, very disjointedly, and in a manner which could scarcely be set down
here, Major James Agar told his singular story. There are--thank
heaven!--many such stories still untold; there are, one would be inclined
to hope, many such still uncommenced.
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