“Nothing!”
“Try to remember.”
“No use. I’ve tried it too often. It’s all a blank. I thought, for an instant, that in your psychometer test the veil would be lifted. Instead—as you know—I went to pieces.”
“Very well,” said Leighton reassuringly, “let us go back to your story. You were in the tunnel when the dynamite went off. You were thrown to the ground; you lost consciousness. What is the next step in memory?”
“Wait,” said David slowly. “The explosion was on the ninth of May. The date was indelibly fixed in my mind; I have verified it since. When I recovered consciousness——”
“You mean, your normal consciousness,” interjected Leighton.
“Very well. When I came to myself, then, it was on the morning of the fifth of August.”
“Nearly three months afterwards,” ruminated the old man. “You found yourself——?”
“Seated in a chair, in a room in a strange house in Bogota.”