rapid step approach along the hall. It stopped before my door; and just
as Bainbridge ceased to speak, a loud rap, evidently made with the head
of a heavy cane, sounded on the panel. The door flew open, and Doctor
Castleton rushed into the middle of the room--or, rather, bounded across
the room. Bainbridge and I instantly arose, and I stepped forward to
take Doctor Castleton's hand in mine, and to care for his hat and cane;
but he waved me off. "No, no: no time--not a minute to spare--three
patients waiting"--here he glanced at Bainbridge, as if to observe the
effect of his speech on a beginner, who was fortunate if he yet
possessed a single patient--"like to keep my word--fine evening." He
seated himself on the edge of a chair, and projected his glance around
the room. No better subject immediately presenting itself to mind, I
remarked that we had just been talking of Edgar Allan Poe, and his
unfinished story, "The Narrative of A. Gordon Pym"; and I spoke of Dirk
Peters.

"I know old man Peters--know him well, sir," said Doctor Castleton,
without a moment's hesitation; "short old fellow--seafaring man--about
four feet six, or seven--must have been a devil in his day--old man,
now--seventy or eighty; no hair, no beard; farms a few acres on the
Bluff; very sick man, right now."

Bainbridge and I had cast at each other a glance, which plainly said,
"Isn't that Castleton for you?" But as he continued, and we had time to
consider, the probability that Dirk Peters was alive, and the bare
possibility that he was in the neighborhood, and that, if he did reside
near Bellevue, Doctor Castleton would be very likely to have met him,
gradually dawned on our minds. Quick as was the glance we exchanged,
Castleton saw it--yes, and understood it.