As soon as the funeral was over, Cyril left Geralton. On arriving in London he recognised several reporters at the station. Fearing that they might follow him, he ordered his taxi to drive to the Carlton. There he got out and walking quickly through the hotel, he made his exit by a rear door. Having assured himself that he was not being observed, he hailed another taxi and drove to the nursing home.

"Well, Mr. Thompkins," exclaimed the doctor, with ponderous facetiousness. "I am glad to be able to tell you that Mrs. Thompkins is much better."

"And her memory?" faltered Cyril.

"It's improving. She does not yet remember people or incidents, but she is beginning to recall certain places. For instance, I asked her yesterday if she had been to Paris. It suggested nothing to her, but this morning she told me with great pride that Paris was a city and that it had a wide street with an arch at one end. So you see she is progressing; only we must not hurry her."

Cyril murmured a vague assent.

"Of course," continued the doctor, "you must be very careful when you see Lady Wilmersley to restrain your emotions, and on no account to remind her of the immediate past. I hope and believe she will never remember it. On the other hand, I wish you to talk about those of her friends and relations for whom she has shown a predilection. Her memory must be gently stimulated, but on no account excited. Quiet, quiet is essential to her recovery."

"But doctor—I must—it's frightfully important that my wife (he found himself calling her so quite glibly) should be told of a certain fact at once. If I wait even a day, it will be too late," urged Cyril.

"And you have reason to suppose that this communication will agitate Lady Wilmersley?"

"I—I fear so."

"Then I can certainly not permit it. You don't seem to realise the delicate condition of her brain. Why, it might be fatal," insisted the doctor.

Cyril felt as if Nemesis were indeed overtaking him.

"Come, we will go to her," said the doctor, moving towards the door. "She is naturally a little nervous about seeing you, so we must not keep her waiting."

But Cyril hung back. If he could not undeceive the poor girl, how could he enter her presence. To pose as the husband of a woman so as to enable her to escape arrest was excusable, but to impose himself on the credulity of an afflicted girl was absolutely revolting. If he treated her with even the most decorous show of affection, he would be taking a dastardly advantage of the situation. Yet if he behaved with too much reserve, she would conclude that her husband was a heartless brute. Her husband! The one person she had to cling to in the isolation to which she had awakened. It was horrible! Oh, why had he ever placed her in such an impossible position? Arrest would have been preferable. He was sure that she could easily have proved her innocence of whatever it was of which she was accused, and in a few days at the latest would have gone free without a stain on her character, while now, unless by some miracle this episode remained concealed, she was irredeemably compromised. He was a married man; she, for aught he knew to the contrary, might also be bound, or at all events have a fiancÉ or lover waiting to claim her. How would he view the situation? How would he receive the explanation? Cyril shuddered involuntarily. Every minute the chances that her secret could be kept decreased. If she did not return to her friends while it was still possible to explain or account for the time of her absence, he feared she would never be able to return at all. Yes, it would take a miracle to save her now!

"Well, Lord Wilmersley?"

Cyril started. The doctor's tone was peremptory and his piercing eyes were fixed searchingly upon him. What excuse could he give for refusing to meet his supposed wife? He could think of none.

"I must remind you, doctor," he faltered at last, "that my wife has lately detested me. I—I really don't think I had better see her—I—I am so afraid my presence will send her off her head again."

The doctor's upper lip grew rigid and his eyes contracted angrily.

"I have already assured you that she is perfectly sane. It is essential to her recovery that she should see somebody connected with her past life. I cannot understand your reluctance to meet Lady Wilmersley."

"I—I am only thinking of the patient," Cyril murmured feebly.

"The patient is my affair," snapped the doctor.

What could he do? For an instant he was again tempted to tell Stuart-Smith the truth. He looked anxiously at the man. No, it was impossible. There was no loophole for escape. And after all, he reflected, if he had an opportunity of watching the girl, she might quite unconsciously by some act, word, or even by some subtle essence of her personality furnish him with a clue to her past. Every occupation leaves indelible marks, although it sometimes takes keen eyes to discern them. If the girl had been a seamstress, Cyril believed that he would be able by observing her closely to assure himself of the fact.

"Very well," he said aloud. "If you are willing to assume the responsibility, I will go to my wife at once. But I insist on your being present at our meeting."

"Certainly, if you wish it, but it is not at all necessary, I assure you," replied the doctor.

A moment later Cyril, blushing like a schoolgirl, found himself in a large, white-washed room. Before him on a narrow, iron bedstead lay his mysterious protÉgÉe. Cyril caught his breath. He had forgotten how beautiful she was. Her red lips were slightly parted and the colour ebbed and flowed in her transparent cheeks. Ignoring the doctor, her eager glance sought Cyril and for a minute the two young people gazed at each other in silence. How young, how innocent she looked! How could any one doubt the candour of those star like eyes, thought Cyril.

"Well, Mrs. Crichton," exclaimed Stuart-Smith, "I have brought you the husband you have been so undutiful as to forget. 'Love, honour, and obey, and above all remember,' I suggest as an amendment to the marriage vow."

"Nurse has been reading me the marriage service," said the girl, with a quaint mixture of pride and diffidence. "I know all about it now; I don't think I'll forget again."

"Of course not! And now that you have seen your husband, do you find that you remember him at all?"

"Yes, a little. I know that I have seen you before," she answered, addressing Cyril.

"I gather from your manner that you don't exactly dislike him, do you?" asked the doctor with an attempt at levity. "Your husband is so modest that he is afraid to remain in your presence till you have reassured him on this point."

"I love him very much," was her astounding answer.

Cyril's heart gave a bound. Did she realise what she had said? She certainly showed no trace of embarrassment, and although her eyes clung persistently to his, their expression of childlike simplicity was absolutely disarming.

"Very good, very good, quite as it should be," exclaimed the doctor, evidently a little abashed by the frankness of the girl's reply. "That being the case, I will leave you two together to talk over old times, although they can't be very remote. I am sure, however, that when I see you again, you will be as full of reminiscences as an octogenarian," chuckled the doctor as he left the room.

Cyril and the girl were alone.

An arm-chair had been placed near the bed, obviously for his reception, and after a moment's hesitation he took it. The girl did not speak, but continued to look at him unflinchingly. Cyril fancied she regarded him with something of the unquestioning reverence a small child might have for a beloved parent. His eyes sank before hers. Never had he felt so unworthy, so positively guilty. He racked his brains for something to say, but the doctor's restrictions seemed to bar every topic which suggested itself to him. If he only knew who she was! He glanced at her furtively. In the dim light of the shaded lamp he had not noticed that what he had supposed was her hair, was in reality a piece of black lace bound turbanwise about her head.

"What are you wearing that bandage for?" he inquired eagerly. "Was your head hurt—my dear?" he added diffidently.

"No—I—I hope you won't be angry—nurse said you would—but I couldn't help it. I really had to cut it off."

"Cut what off?"

"My hair." She hung her head as a naughty child might have done.

"You cut off your hair? But why?" His voice sounded suddenly harsh. Strange that her first act had been to destroy one of the few things by which she could be identified. Was she as innocent as she seemed? Had she fooled them all, even the doctor? This amnesia, or whatever it was called, was it real, was it assumed? He wondered.

"Oh, husband, I know it was wrong; but when I woke up and couldn't remember anything, I was so frightened, and then nurse brought me a looking-glass and the face I saw was so strange! Oh, it was so lonely without even myself! And then nurse said it was my hair. She said it sometimes happened when people have had a great shock or been very ill and so—I made her cut it off. She didn't want to—it wasn't her fault—I made her do it."

"But what had happened to your hair?"

"It had turned quite white, most of it." The girl shuddered. "Oh, it was horrid! I am sure you would not have liked it."

Cyril, looking into her limpid eyes, felt his sudden suspicions unworthy of him.

"You must grow a nice new crop of black curls, if you want to appease me," he answered.

"Oh, do you like black hair?" Her disappointment was obvious.

"Yes, don't you? Your hair was black before your illness."

"I know it was—but I hate it! At all events, as long as I must wear a wig, I should like to have a nice yellow one; nurse tells me I can get them quite easily."

"Dear me! But I don't think a wig nice at all."

"Don't you?" Her mouth drooped at the corners. She seemed on the verge of tears.

What an extraordinary child! he thought. But she mustn't cry—anything rather than that.

"My dear, if you want a wig, you shall have one immediately. Tell your nurse to send to the nearest hairdresser for an assortment from which you can make your choice."

"Oh, thank you, thank you," she cried, clapping her hands. Her hands! Cyril had forgotten them for the moment, and it was through them that he had hoped to establish her identity. He looked at them searchingly. No ring encircled the wedding finger, nor did it show the depression which the constant wearing of one invariably leaves. The girl was evidently unmarried. Those long, slender, well-kept hands certainly did not look as if they could belong to a servant, but he reflected that a seamstress' work was not of a nature to spoil them. Only the forefinger of her left hand would probably bear traces of needle pricks. He leaned eagerly forward.

"What are you looking at?" she asked.

"At your hands, my dear," he tried to speak lightly.

"What is the matter with them?" She held them out for his inspection. Yes, it was as he had expected—her forefinger was rough. She was Priscilla Prentice. Everything had fore-warned him of this conclusion, yet in his heart of hearts he had not believed it possible till this moment.

"Don't you like my hands?" she asked, as she regarded them with anxious scrutiny, evidently trying to discover why they failed to find favour in the sight of her lord.

"They are—" He checked himself; he had almost added—the prettiest hands in the world; but he mustn't say such things to her, not under the circumstances. "They are very pretty, only you have sewn so much that you have quite spoiled one little finger."

"Sewn?" She seemed struck with the idea. "Sew? I should like to sew. I know I can."

Further proof of her identity, if he needed it.

"Well, you must get nurse to find you something on which to exercise your talents—only you must be careful not to prick yourself so much in future."

"I will try, husband," she answered meekly, as she gazed solemnly at the offending finger.

There was a pause.

"Do tell me something about my past life," said she. "I have been lying here wondering and wondering."

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything. In the first place, are my parents living? Oh, I hope so!"

Here was a poser. Cyril had no idea whether her parents were alive or not, but even if they were, it would be impossible to communicate with them for the present, so he had better set her mind at rest by denying their existence.

"No, my dear, you are an orphan, and you have neither brothers nor sisters," he added hastily. It was just as well to put a final stop to questions as to her family.

"Nobody of my own—nobody?"

"Nobody," he reiterated, but he felt like a brute.

"Have I any children?" was her next question.

Cyril started perceptibly.

"No, no, certainly not," he was so embarrassed that he spoke quite sharply.

"Oh, are you glad?" She stared at him in amazement and to his disgust Cyril felt himself turning crimson.

"Now I'm sorry," she continued with a soft sigh. "I wish I had a baby. I remember about babies."

"I—I like them, too," he hastened to assure her. Really this was worse than he had expected.

"How long have we been married?" she demanded.

"I have been married four years," he truthfully answered, hoping that that statement would satisfy her.

"Fancy! We have been living together for four years! Isn't it awful that I can only remember you the very weeist little bit! But I will love, honour, and obey you—now that I know—I will indeed."

"I am sure you will always do what is right," said Cyril with a sudden tightening of his throat. She looked so young, so innocent, so serious. Oh, if only——

"Bah, don't waste too much love on me. I'm an unworthy beggar," he said aloud.

"You are an unworthy husband? Oh!" She opened her eyes wide and stared at him in consternation. "But it doesn't say anything in the prayer-book about not loving unworthy husbands. I don't believe it makes any difference to the vow before God. Besides you don't look unworthy—are you sure you are?" she pleaded.

Cyril's eyes fell before her agonised gaze.

"I'll try to be worthy of you," he stammered.

"Worthy of me?" she cried with a gay, little laugh. "I'm too silly and stupid now to be anything but a burden—I quite realise that—but the doctor thinks I will get better and in the meantime I will try to please you and do my duty."

Poor baby, thought Cyril, the marriage vows she imagined she had taken seemed to weigh dreadfully on her conscience. Oh, if he could only undeceive her!

A discreet knock sounded at the door.

The nurse made her appearance.

"The doctor thinks Mrs. Thompkins has talked enough for the present," she said.

Cyril rose with a curious mixture of relief and reluctance.

"Well, this must be good-bye for to-day," he said, taking her small hand in his.

She lifted up her face—simply as a child might have done. Slowly he leaned nearer to her, his heart was pounding furiously; the blood rushed to his temples.

Suddenly he started back! He must not—he dare not——!

For a moment he crushed her fingers to his lips; then turning abruptly, he strode towards the door.

"You'll come to-morrow, won't you?" she cried.

"Yes, to-morrow," he answered.

"Early?"

"As early as I can."

"Good-bye, husband. I will be so lonely without you," she called after him, but he resolutely closed the door.

At the foot of the stairs a nurse was waiting for him.

"The doctor would like to speak to you for a moment," she said as she led the way to the consulting-room.

"Well, how did you find Lady Wilmersley's memory; were you able to help her in any way to recall the past," inquired the doctor.

Cyril was too preoccupied to notice that the other's manner was several degrees colder than it had been on his arrival.

"I fear not." Cyril felt guiltily conscious that he was prevaricating.

"You astonish me. I confess I am disappointed. Yes, very much so. But it will come back to her—I am sure it will."

"I say, doctor, how long do you think my wife will have to remain here?"

"No longer than she wishes to. She could be moved to-morrow, if necessary, but I advise waiting till the day after."

"You are sure it won't hurt her?" insisted Cyril anxiously.

"Quite. In fact, the sooner Lady Wilmersley resumes her normal life the better."

"How soon will I be able to talk freely to her?" Cyril asked.

"That depends largely on how she progresses, but not before a month at the earliest. By the way, Lord Wilmersley, I want you to take charge of Lady Wilmersley's bag. The contents were too valuable to be left about; so after taking out her toilet articles, the nurse brought it to me."

"Ah! and—and what was in the bag?" asked Cyril fearfully.

"Lady Wilmersley's jewels, of course."

Jewels! This was terrible. If they were those belonging to his cousin, their description had been published in every paper in the kingdom. It was a miracle that Smith had not recognised them.

"Of course," Cyril managed to stammer.

The doctor went to a safe and taking out a cheap, black bag handed it to Cyril.

"I should like you, please, to see if they are all there," he said.

"That isn't the least necessary," Cyril hastened to assure him.

"You would greatly oblige me by doing so."

"I'm quite sure they are all right; besides if any are missing, they were probably stolen in Paris," said Cyril.

"But I insist." Stuart-Smith was nothing if not persistent. His keen eyes had noted Cyril's agitation and his reluctance to open the bag made the doctor all the more determined to force him to do so.

But Cyril was too quick for him. Seizing the bag, he made for the door.

"I'll come back to-morrow," he cried over his shoulder, as he hurried unceremoniously out of the room and out of the house.

A disreputable-looking man stood at the door of his waiting taxi and obsequiously opened it. Shouting his address to the driver, Cyril flung himself into the car and waved the beggar impatiently away.

No sooner were they in motion than Cyril hastened to open the bag. A brown paper parcel lay at the bottom of it. He undid the string with trembling fingers. Yes, it was as he feared—a part, if not all, of the Wilmersley jewels lay before him.

"Give me a penny, for the love of Gawd," begged a hoarse voice at his elbow. The beggar was still clinging to the step and his villainous face was within a foot of the jewels.

Cyril felt himself grow cold with apprehension. The fellow knew who he was, and followed him. He was a detective!

"A gen'lman like you could well spare a poor man a penny," the fellow whined, but there was a note of menace in his voice. Cyril tried to get a good look at him, but the light was too dim for him to distinguish his features clearly.

Hastily covering the jewels, Cyril thrust a coin into the grimy hand.

"Go!" he commanded, "go, or I'll call the police."

The man sank out of sight.

"My poor little girl, my poor little girl," murmured Cyril disconsolately, as he glanced once more at the incriminating jewels.