“Doesn’t remember anything, eh?” he said dryly. He crossed over to the mysterious stranger and put his hand under the Unknown’s chin, jerking his head up roughly.
“Look up here!” he commanded.
The Unknown stared at him for an instant with blank, vacuous eyes. Then his head dropped back upon his breast again.
“Look up, you—” muttered the detective, jerking his head again. “This losing your memory stuff doesn’t go down with me!” His eyes bored into the Unknown’s.
“It doesn’t—go down—very well—with me—either,” said the Unknown weakly, making no movement of protest against Anderson’s rough handling.
“Did you ever see me before?” demanded the latter. Beresford held the candle closer so that he might watch the Unknown’s face for any involuntary movement of betrayal.
But the Unknown made no such movement. He gazed at Anderson, apparently with the greatest bewilderment, then his eyes cleared, he seemed to be about to remember who the detective was.
“You’re—the—Doctor—I—saw—downstairs—aren’t you?” he said innocently. The detective set his jaw. He started off on a new tack.
“Does this belong to you?” he said suddenly, plucking from his pocket the battered gold watch that Beresford had found and waving it before the Unknown’s blank face.
The Unknown stared at it a moment, as a child might stare at a new toy, with no gleam of recognition. Then—