"Don't know. I've only known you since sundown. You've just gone through a remarkable change of front."
"What day of the month is it?"
"The third day of December."
"Hell! Six months ago. It happened in June, Of course, six months is time enough for me to get here, but why can't I remember coming? Someone must have brought me."
"Not necessarily. You were walking along, caring for yourself, but hungry. I brought you here for a feed and a night's sleep."
"That was kind of you—" He involuntarily raised his hand to his face. "I've grown a beard, I see. Let's see how I look with a beard." He stepped to a looking-glass on the wall, took one look, and sprang back.
"Why, it isn't me!" he exclaimed, looking around with dilated eyes. "It's someone else."
"Take another look," I said. He did so, moved his head to the right and left, and then turned to me.
"It must be me," he said, hoarsely, "for the image in the glass follows my movements. But I've lost my face. I'm another man. I don't know myself."
"Look at that anchor on your wrist," I suggested. He did so.