I think he waited in the hall.
"I would like to talk with you a while, Mr. Pinkhammer, if I may," said
the gentleman who remained.
"Very well, if you care to," I replied, "and will excuse me if I take it
comfortably; I am rather tired." I stretched myself upon a couch by a
window and lit a cigar. He drew a chair nearby.
"Let us speak to the point," he said, soothingly. "Your name is not
Pinkhammer."
"I know that as well as you do," I said, coolly. "But a man must have a
name of some sort. I can assure you that I do not extravagantly admire
the name of Pinkhammer. But when one christens one's self suddenly, the
fine names do not seem to suggest themselves. But, suppose it had been
Scheringhausen or Scroggins! I think I did very well with Pinkhammer."
"Your name," said the other man, seriously, "is Elwyn C. Bellford. You
are one of the first lawyers in Denver. You are suffering from an attack
of aphasia, which has caused you to forget your identity. The cause of
it was over-application to your profession, and, perhaps, a life too
bare of natural recreation and pleasures. The lady who has just left the
room is your wife."
"She is what I would call a fine-looking woman," I said, after a
judicial pause.
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