“And his memory now?”
“Is perfect in all respects, except he doesn’t know who he is.”
“A fishy tale!”
“No; you won’t say so after you’ve seen him. When I say his memory is perfect, I mean regarding what he has read or has studied. But it is his personal recollections that have gone from him. He has no remembrance of his home or his friends or his own identity.”
“Can’t you deduce his previous occupation?”
“I can’t. Perhaps you can. He can draw, and he is well-read, that’s all I know.”
We were at my rooms by that time, and going up, we found Case Rivers already there awaiting us. I lamented my lack of promptness, but he gracefully waived my apology.
“It’s all right,” he smiled in his good-humored way, “I’ve been browsing among your books and having the time of my life.”
I introduced the two men, and told Rivers that Wise was the famous detective I had mentioned to him.
“I’m downright glad to know you,” Rivers said, earnestly; “if you can do a bit of deduction as to who I am, I’ll be under deepest obligation. I give you myself as a clew.”