"Everything between those dates was a blank."
"Your case is not absolutely common," said Oppenshaw. "Rare, but not without precedent—read the papers. Why, only yesterday a woman was found on a seat at Brighton. She had left London a week ago; the interval was to her a complete blank, yet she had travelled about and lived like an ordinary mortal in possession of her ordinary senses."
"Wait a bit," said Simon. "I was not found on a seat in Paris. I found myself in a gorgeously-furnished sitting-room of the Bristol Hotel, and I was dressed in clothes that might have suited a young man—a fool of twenty, and I very soon found that I had been acting—acting like a fool. Of the ten thousand only five thousand remained."
"Five thousand in a month," said Oppenshaw. "Well, you paid the price of your temporary youth. Tell me," said he, "and be quite frank. What were you like when you were young? I mean in mind and conduct?"
Simon moved wearily.
"I was a fool for a while," said he. "Then I suddenly checked myself and became sensible."
Oppenshaw rapped twice with his fingers on his desk as if in triumph over his own perception.
"That clears matters," said he. "You were undoubtedly suffering from Lethmann's disease."
"Good Lord!" said Simon. "What's that?"