“Now, if you please,” said the Specialist, his mind working with such energy that his face looked almost bright for a moment, “now, if you please, the details, if you remember them.”
“Certainly,” said Mr. Petre. “I dreamed I went to Liverpool Street and took a ticket for New York; the man who gave me the ticket through the little hole turned out to be a peacock, but I didn’t think it at all odd. After that I found myself trying to read a book, but I didn’t understand the letters, so I put it down and found myself dropping into a sort of confusion. That was my dream, as far as I can remember it.”
The pace at which Sir Henry’s pen had raced was worthy of an expert in shorthand. He had the whole thing down, and was aglow with excitement and interest.
“Ah!—Now—” he said, “this is really important! Here we have a clew. Such illusions as you may be suffering from....”
“But,” interrupted Mr. Petre, “I am not....” Up went the hand again. “I say, as you may be suffering from,” went on Sir Henry, “we shall, I think, be able to explain. But we cannot resolve the complex until you shall tell me quite frankly to what vivid experience of childhood—no doubt of a very private nature; but you must tell me all—you most naturally return in your innermost thoughts.”
“To none,” said Mr. Petre, in a voice that was almost a shout, for the delay was exasperating him, and he refused to be put off any further though the hand was up again at “Line blocked.” “I remember nothing of my childhood. I remember nothing of my manhood. I remember nothing before last Easter—to be accurate, last Easter Monday. That’s why I came to see you!”
The Great Specialist turned upon him a face of stone.
“Why did you not say that before, sir? It would have saved us both a great deal of trouble.”
“Because you wouldn’t let me.”
“Come, come,” said the doctor, “we must have no discussion.” The pen came down upon the paper again and wrote a line. “I take it, then, that you require my aid in a case of Amnemonesis.”