d.'

'It's only a man I met with in Plymouth some time ago, who has lost his
memory,' I responded.

'Lost his memory? What do you mean?'

I gave him a brief outline of the story I have related in these pages,
and then added: 'It is not so strange after all; I have heard of
several cases since, where, through some accident, or shock, men have
been robbed of the past. In some cases their memory has returned to
them suddenly, and they have gone back to their people, who had given
them up for dead. On the other hand, I suppose there have been lots
who have never recovered.'

'The thing that struck me,' said Sir Roger, 'was the possibility of a
very interesting _denouement_ in this case. I was chairman of the
meeting at Plymouth, where the fellow enlisted, and he struck me as an
extraordinary chap. He had all the antiquity of Adam on his face, and
yet he might have been young. He had the look of a gentleman, too, and
from what Luscombe tells me, he is a gentleman. But there it is; he
remembers nothing, the past is a perfect blank to him. What'll happen,
if his memory comes back?'

'Probably nothing,' said St. Mabyn; 'he may have had the most humdrum
past imaginable.'

'Of course he may, but on the other hand there may be quite a romance
in the story. As I said to Luscombe, he may have a wife, or a
sweetheart, who has been waiting for him for years, and perhaps given
him up as dead. Think of his memory coming back, and of the meeting
which would follow! Or supposing he is an heir to some estate, and
somebody else has got it? Why, George, think if something like that
had happened to your brother Maurice! It might, in fact it _would_
alter everything. But there are the motors at the door; we must be
off.'

He turned toward the door as he spoke, and did not see George St.
Mabyn's face; but I did. It had become drawn and haggard, while in his
eyes was a look which suggested anguish.

In spite of myself, a suspicion flashed across my mind. Of course the
thing was improbable, if not impossible. But, perhaps influenced by
Sir Roger's insistence upon the romantic possibilities of the story, I
could not help thinking of it. There could be no doubt, too, that
George St. Mabyn looked positively ghastly. A few minutes before, he
looked ruddy and well, but now his face was haggard, as if he were in
great pain.

Of course it was all nonsense; nevertheless I caught myself constantly
thinking about it on my wa