“No,” said William very firmly, “not where I live nor anything.”
The other man, feeling evidently that he could contribute little illumination to the problem, moved on, leaving the doctor and his wife staring at William. They held a whispered consultation. Then the doctor turned to William and said suddenly:
“Frank Simpkins ... does that suggest anything to you?”
“No,” said William with perfect truth.
“Doesn’t know his own name,” whispered the doctor, then again sharply:
“Acacia Cottage ... does that convey anything to you?”
“No,” said William again with perfect truth.
The doctor turned to his wife.
“No memory of his name or home,” he commented. “I’ve always wanted to study a case of this sort at close quarters. Now, my good boy, come back home with me.”
But William didn’t want to go back home with him. He didn’t want to return to the house which still bore traces of his recent habitation and where his “flood” presumably still raged. He was just contemplating precipitate flight when a woman came hurrying along the road. The doctor’s wife seemed to recognise her. She whispered to the doctor. The doctor turned to William.