“Recognize you? No, sir. Who are you?”
“My name is Hamilton. I am the musician whose daughter sang to you at Annesley Park. Do you not remember falling from the train?”
“No, sir,” replied the baronet. “I think that you must be mistaken.”
John Hamilton sighed.
“You fell, and hurt your head terribly,” he went on, “and I have nursed you through a long mental illness. I did not call in a doctor for several reasons, one of which is that I once practiced the healing art myself.”
“I remember none of these things,” Sir Harold said; “I would not even know that my name were Sir Harold if you did not tell me so. The past is all a blank.”
“This is terrible—terrible!” John Hamilton groaned.
“I do not experience any of your terrors,” laughed the young man. “What a lovely day! If you will permit it, doctor, I would like to go out into the sunshine.”
“Certainly, sir! It may do you much good.”
He gazed anxiously at his guest for a few moments; then he assisted him to dress, and the light, boyish laughter of Sir Harold shocked him.