hed gaily. 'I think that whatever I went through has increased
my powers of memory,--that is, those things that took place since I
woke up. If you will ask the sub., or the drill sergeant who gave me
my training, they will tell you that there was never any need to tell
me anything twice. I forget nothing, I never have to make an effort to
remember. When I hear a thing, or see a man's face, I never forget it.
I worked hard, too. I have read a good deal. I found that I knew
nothing of mathematics, and that my knowledge of German and French was
very hazy. It is not so now. Things like _that_ have come to me in a
miraculous way.'

'Have you tried for a commission?'

'No. I have been offered one, but I wouldn't have it. Something, I
don't know what, told me not to. I wouldn't even have a corporal's
stripe.'

'And you have no more idea of who you really are than you had when I
saw you first?'

'No, not a bit.'

'Let me see if I can help your memory,' I said. 'Devonshire, think of
that word, now, and what it represents,--does it bring back anything to
you?'

'Nothing, except that yearning. I have a feeling that I know something
about it,--a great longing to--to--I hardly know what.'

I tried him a little farther. 'Granitelands,--does that mean anything
to you?'

Again he hesitated. 'No, nothing.'

'Can you ever recall any remembrance of, or has the name of Maurice St.
Mabyn any interest for you?'

I asked this because, even in spite of what Captain Springfield had
told me, vague fancies had come to me that perhaps there might be some
mistake, and--and----but I dared not bring my thoughts to a conclusion.

'Maurice St. Mabyn,' he repeated, 'Maurice St. Mabyn. It might be a
name I heard when I was a kiddy, but--no.'

'Norah Blackwater.' I uttered the name suddenly, impressively, and I
thought I saw his lips tremble, and certainly his eyes had a far-away
look. He was like a man trying to see in a great darkness, trying to
outline objects which were invisible to the natural eye.

'That seems like a dream name. Who is she? Why do you ask about her?'

'I am trying to help you,' I said. 'She is a lady I met at the house
of Sir Roger Granville. She must be about twenty-five, perhaps not
quite so old, a tall, stylish-looking girl. I expect by this time she
is engaged to a fellow called George St. Mabyn. He is a brother to
Maurice, who was killed in Egypt.'

'Maurice killed in Egypt!' he repea