Now at last he was awake, with seeming intelligence in his eyes, asking where he was and who were the people around him. Tom explained and then questioned him in return.
But the mystery was not to be so easily solved. The invalid could not tell his name, nor where he had come from. He said he had been prospecting all his life—where—how long—all particulars were a blank.
“I can't remember anything but the cache—nothing else at all,” he declared, gazing piteously into one face after another.
“Tell us about that, then.”
He felt in his bosom and drew out the little pouch. It was opened for him and its contents—a fragment of quartz heavy with gold and a tiny steel key—taken out.
“Ah! What do you call that?” he inquired eagerly, pointing to the yellow metal.
“Gold.”
“Yes? Well, there is lots of that in my cache.”
“Where is your cache?” inquired Tom.
The old fellow dropped his head and tried to think, but couldn't clutch any of the motes of memory dodging like phantasmagoria before his eyes.