'Where did you come from?'

'From Bombay. It was a long journey to Bombay, but it seemed my only
chance.' Then he shuddered.

'Aren't you well?' I asked.

'Oh, yes, I am very well now. But everything seems difficult to
realize; you, now, and all this,' and he cast his eyes quickly around
him, 'seem to be something which exists in the imagination, rather than
objective, tangible things.'

He spoke perfect English, and his manner suggested education,
refinement.

'You don't mind my speaking to you, do you?' he added somewhat
nervously.

'Not at all,' and I scrutinized him more closely. 'If you did not
speak English so well,' I said, 'I should have thought you were an
Indian,'--and then I realized that I had been guilty of a _faux pas_,
for I saw his face flush and his lips tremble painfully.

'You were thinking of my clothes,' was his reply. 'They were the best
I could get. When I realized that I was alive, I was half naked; I was
very weak and ill, too. I picked up these things,' and he glanced at
his motley garments, 'where and how I could. On the whole, however,
people were very kind to me. When I got to Bombay, my feeling was that
I must get to England.'

'And where are you going now?' I asked.

'I don't know. Luckily I have a little money; I found it inside my
vest. I suppose I must have put it there before----' and then he
became silent, while the strange, wistful look in his eyes was
intensified.

'What is your name?' I asked.

'I haven't the slightest idea. It's very awkward, isn't it?' and he
laughed nervously. 'Sometimes dim pictures float before my mind, and I
seem to have vague recollections of things that happened ages and ages
ago. But they pass away in a second. I am afraid you think my conduct
unpardonable, but I can hardly help myself. You see, having no memory,
I act on impulse. That was why I spoke to you.'

'The poor fellow must be mad,' I said to myself; 'it would be a
kindness to him to take him to a police station, and ask the
authorities to take care of him.' But as I looked at him again, I was
not sure of this. In spite of his strange attire, and in spite, too,
of the wistful look in his eyes, there was no suggestion of insanity.
That he had passed through great trouble I was sure, and I had a
feeling that he must, at some time, have undergone some awful
experiences. But his eyes were not those of a madman. In some senses
they were bold and resolute, and sugg