the strange mentalrecovery which I have mentioned to you."

This was a disappointment. I had begun to hope for some coming
result, obtained by the lad's confession.

"Is it quite correct to call him sane, when his memory is gone?"
I ventured to ask.

"In this case there is no necessity to enter into the question,"
the doctor answered. "The boy's lapse of memory refers, as I told

you, to his past life--that is to say, his life when his
intellect was deranged. During the extraordinaryinterval of

sanity that has now declared itself, he is putting his mental
powers to their first free use; and none of them fail him, so far

as I can see. His new memory (if I may call it so) preserves the
knowledge of what has happened since his illness. You may imagine

how this problem in brain disease interests me; and you will not
wonder that I am going back to Sandsworth tomorrow afternoon,

when I have done with my professional" target="_blank" title="a.职业的 n.自由职业">professional visits. But you may be
reasonably surprised at my troubling _you_ with details which are

mainly interesting to a medical man."
Was he about to ask me to go with him to the asylum? I replied

very briefly, merely saying that the details were interesting to
every student of human nature. If he could have felt my pulse at

that moment, I am afraid he might have thought I was in a fair
way of catching the fever too.

"Prepare yourself," he resumed, "for another surprising
circumstance. Mr. Winterfield is, by some incomprehensible

accident, associated with one of the mischievous tricks played by
the French boy, before he was placed under my friend's care.

There, at any rate, is the only explanation by which we can
account for the discovery of an envelope (with inclosures) found

sewn up in the lining of the lad's waistcoat, and directed to Mr.
Winterfield--without any place of address."

I leave you to imagine the effect which those words produced on
me.

"Now," said the doctor, "you will understand why I put such
strange questions to you. My friend and I are both hard-working

men. We go very little into society, as the phrase is; and
neither he nor I had ever heard the name of Winterfield. As a

certain proportion of my patients happen to be people with a
large experience of society, I undertook to make inquiries, so

that the packet might be delivered, if possible, to the right
person. You heard how Mrs. Eyrecourt (surely a likely lady to

assist me?) received my unluckyreference to the madhouse; and
you saw how I puzzled Sir John. I consider myself most fortunate,

Father Benwell, in having had the honor of meeting you? Will you
accompany me to the asylum to-morrow? And can you add to the

favor by bringing Mr. Winterfield with you?"
This last request it was out of my power--really out of my

power--to grant. Winterfield had left London that morning on his
visit to Paris. His address there was, thus far, not known to me.

"Well, you must represent your friend," the doctor said. "Time is
every way of importance in this case. Will you kindly call here

at five to-morrow afternoon?"
I was punctual to my appointment. We drove together to the

asylum.
There is no need for me to trouble you with a narrative of what I

saw--favored by Doctor Wybrow's introduction--at the French boy's
bedside. It was simply a repetition of what I had already heard.

There he lay, at the height of the fever, asking, in the
intervals of relief, intelligent questions relating to the

medicines administered to him; and perfectly understanding the
answers. He was only irritable when we asked him to take his

memory back to the time before his illness; and then he answered
in French, "I haven't got a memory."

But I have something else to tell you, which is deserving of your
best attention. The envelope and its inclosures (addressed to

"Bernard Winterfield, Esqre.") are in my possession. The
Christian name sufficiently identifies the inscription with the

Winterfield whom I know.
The circumstances under which the discovery was made were related

to me by the proprietor of the asylum.
When the boy was brought to the house, two French ladies (his

mother and sister) accompanied him. and mentioned what had been
their own domestic experience of the case. They described the

wandering propensities which took the lad away from home, and the
odd concealment of his waistcoat, on the last occasion when he

had returned from one of his vagrant outbreaks.
On his first night at the asylum, he became excited by finding

himself in a strange place. It was necessary to give him a
composing draught. On goin g to bed, he was purposely not

prevented from hiding his waistcoat under the pillow, as usual.
When the sedative had produced its effect, the attendant easily

possessed himself of the hiddengarment. It was the plain duty of
the master of the house to make sure that nothing likely to be

turned to evil uses was concealed by a patient. The seal which
had secured the envelope was found, on examination, to have been

broken.
"I would not have broken the seal myself," our host added. "But,

as things were, I thought it my duty to look at the inclosures.
They refer to private affairs of Mr. Winterfield, in which he is

deeply interested, and they ought to have been long since placed
in his possession. I need hardly say that I consider myself bound

to preserve the strictest silence as to what I have read. An
envelope, containing some blank sheets of paper, was put back in

the boy's waistcoat, so that he might feel it in its place under
the lining, when he woke. The original envelope and inclosures

(with a statement of circumstances signed by my assistant and
myself) have been secured under another cover, sealed with my own

seal. I have done my best to discover Mr. Bernard Winterfield. He
appears not to live in London. At least I failed to find his name

in the Directory. I wrote next, mentioning what had happened, to
the English gentleman to whom I send reports of the lad's health.

He couldn't help me. A second letter to the French ladies only
produced the same result. I own I should be glad to get rid of my

responsibility on honorable terms."
All this was said in the boy's presence. He lay listening to it

as if it had been a story told of some one else. I could not
resist the useless desire to question him. Not speaking French

myself (although I can read the language), I asked Doctor Wybrow
and his friend to interpret for me.

My questions led to nothing. The French boy knew no more about
the stolenenvelope than I did.

There was no discoverable motive, mind, for suspecting him of
imposing on us. When I said, "Perhaps you stole it?" he answered

quite composedly, "Very likely; they tell me I have been mad; I
don't remember it myself; but mad people do strange things." I

tried him again. "Or, perhaps, you took it away out of mischief?"
"Yes." "And you broke the seal, and looked at the papers?" "I

dare say." "And then you kept them hidden, thinking they might be
of some use to you? Or perhaps feeling ashamed of what you had

done, and meaning to restore them if you got the opportunity?"
"You know best, sir." The same result followed when we tried to

find out where he had been, and what people had taken care of
him, during his last vagrant escape from home. It was a new

revelation to him that he had been anywhere. With evident
interest, he applied to us to tell him where he had wandered to,

and what people he had seen!
So our last attempts at enlightenment ended. We came to the final

question of how to place the papers, with the least possible loss
of time, in Mr. Winterfield's hands.

His absence in Paris having been mentioned, I stated plainly my