and smaller. I wrote to McCloy, who replied with a brief word that I could come back when I was well again.
Before leaving my bed, however, at the end of the month, another incident occurred that shocked me far more than the first.
One afternoon about a week after the confession, there came a knock at the door, and to my complete surprise, in walked a banker, who had often stayed in our house in England. I was startled and annoyed, for I feared he would write home and tell the truth that my letters so carefully concealed. It was a couple of years since I had seen him. How had he found me out? His first sentence told me: "But this is dreadful. I knew nothing about your being ill. I didn't know you were in New York even. An Englishman named Boyde came to my office yesterday and told me." He looked me over with anxiety. "But your bones are showing! Have you been very bad? Why on earth didn't you let me know, my dear fellow?"
I had spoken of this acquaintance in Boyde's presence, and he had evidently made a note of name and address. I explained quickly that I had not been seriously ill, that I was nearly well and had a good doctor, and that I was on the staff of the Evening Sun and doing well. I told him briefly about my Canadian career as well. The banker was a very decent fellow. His visit was brief, but he was very kind, well-meaning and sympathetic--only--I did not want him! He promised, anyhow, he would not write to my father--was glad, I think, to be relieved of the necessity--and before going he absolutely insisted on leaving some money with me. I refused and refused again. But my own exhaustion and his persistence resulted in his leaving all he had on him at the moment--$32. Months later I discovered that Boyde had obtained other sums from him on the plea that I needed a specialist, and there may have been yet further amounts of similar kind for all I knew.
On coming in, Boyde took his scolding with a smile;
he had "acted for the best...." We discussed how the
