“Is it too much to ask if you would telephone to her, sir?” he continued. “She would come and fetch me.”
“Certainly I will,” replied Satterthwaite, his face an impassive mask.
“My name is Durham—Room 363 at the hotel.”
“Right. Come and sit down in here.” He led the way into the adjoining drawing-room. “Make yourself comfortable whilst I ring through to Mrs. Durham.”
He hospitably settled his guest in the most luxurious chair of the elegantly furnished room, and then went out, closing the door after him.
His wife was awaiting him outside. Her face was white. Her eyes, preternaturally large, implored him. She clasped her hands tensely against her breast.
“Oh, Jack!” she cried, her voice nevertheless held too low to be overheard. “We can’t let him go like that! It is Harry—after all!”
He moved forward, and she followed him to the telephone.
“It is Harry all right,” he agreed. “It’s clear enough what has happened. He was shell-shocked. The hospital authorities found nothing on him by which to identify him. No one happened to recognize him. When he recovered consciousness he thought he was someone else—was, in fact, someone else. There are half-a-dozen cases on record, to my knowledge—cases that have nothing to do with the war. Dissociation of personality is the technical term of it. He just ceases to be Tremaine—and becomes Durham, with all its implications.”