“Fancy!” exclaimed the Irishman. “Have you forgotten that, too? John James O’Hara, lieutenant in His Majesty’s Second Dragoon Guards, of Kirwan Lodge, Drumsna, County Leitrim, at your service, sir. And you’ll be telling me next, I suppose, that you don’t remember meeting me in the smoke-room of the Lucania the first day out of New York, and that over two months ago.
“As God is my judge,” Grey answered, solemnly, “I have no recollection of ever seeing you before tonight.”
O’Hara’s muscles stiffened and then relaxed. There was no incredulity in his face, only wonder.
“And have you forgotten your own name, too?” he queried, after a moment.
“I never knew the name I am called by until today.”
“Gad, man, you’re crazy,” the Irishman commented, lighting a fresh cigarette. “You’ve got me all of a tangle. I’m damned if you’re not uncanny. And your name is not Max Arndt at all, then?”
“No.”
“And Herr Schlippenbach. He is not your uncle?”
“God forbid!”
“And the Fräulein von Altdorf is not your sister’s daughter, I suppose?”