The poor old man was mad.

He had poured out the wildest farrago without sense, coherence, or story.
"So much for the letter, Mr.Arbuthnot." He was mad without doubt, yet he knew Arnold, and knew, too, why he was in the house.

"Ah, I knew it would come back to me.

Strange if it did not.

Why I read that letter once every quarter or so for eighteen years.