Mary. Oh, you have done it before?
Welburn. I have tried four times. The first time by train, the next by steamer, the third by car, the fourth on foot, and every time that too devoted woman has got me back. The moment I disappear she circulates a description of me and I'm found at once. It's up in all the police offices. 'A man of good appearance, looking between 35 and 40, of middle height, pleasant and genial countenance. Probably suffering from loss of memory; answers to the name of Tom.' You see that's enough to identify me at once.
Mary. Then do you suffer from loss of memory?
Welburn. Of course I don't. But when I'm found I have to say something, so I pretend I don't know who I am.
Mary. And what happens next?
Welburn [groaning]. Well, then she tries bringing my memory back by suggestion! And when I can't bear that any longer, I pretend I've got it back. And now this last—the fifth—time I've tried a new way. I've come by aeroplane and jumped out.
Mary. That ought to cover up your tracks.
Welburn. Yes, I'll tell you what I did. I have a pal who is mad on flying and who was going to do a stunt in Norfolk, somewhere near King's Lynn, so I went to Paddington and took a ticket for a small station due west of London to put them off the scent—a place I saw in Bradshaw called Camperton.
Mary. Camperton! Oh, yes.
Welburn. Never heard of it before. We went off north-east—at least I hope we did, but I believe the fellow lost his way or something went wrong. He was turning round and round and his confounded things made such a row I couldn't make him hear, so I thought I'd chance it and I jumped out. I have practised jumping with his parachute several times before. And now I haven't an idea where I am, but a good bit north-east of London, I hope.