"How much did you tell me when you disappeared from the Barcelona over two years ago?"
"I told you as much as I could tell any one."
"You didn't tell me your name was Harrowby."
"I didn't know it."
She swung round from her work with the parcel. "You didn't—what?"
I tapped my forehead. "Shell-shock. I'd—I'd forgotten who I was."
A flip of her slender hand dismissed this explanation, as she resumed her task.
"Ah, go on!" And yet she veered back again, with a dash of tears in her blue eyes. "Say, kid, I know all about it. You needn't try to put anything over on me. I know all about it, and I'm sorry for you. That's what I want to say. Do you remember how I used to tell you I was your friend, and that Harry Drinkwater was your friend, too? Well, we are—even now. There's something about you we both—we both kind o' took to. I don't know what it is, but it's there. It was there when I thought you might be a swell crook; and if I didn't mind that I don't mind—this. The only thing I'm thinking is that you're up against it awful thick; and so I told Dick Stroud that whoever shook you the sad hand of farewell I'd be on the spot as the ministering angel."
There were so many points here that I could only seize the one lying, as it were, on top.
"So you—you know Dick Stroud?"