“Yvonne!” exclaimed The Sparrow in a low, kindly voice. “Then you know who we really are? Your reason has returned?”
“Yes,” she answered in French. “I remember who you are. Ah! But—but it is all so strange!” she cried wildly. “I—I—I can’t think! At last! Yes. I know. I recollect! You!” And she stared at Hugh. “You—you are Monsieur Henfrey!”
“That is so, mademoiselle.”
“Ah, messieurs,” remarked the elderly doctor, who was standing behind his patient. “She recognized you both—after all! The sudden shock at seeing you has accomplished what we have failed all these months to accomplish. It is efficacious only in some few cases. In this it is successful. But be careful. I beg of you not to overtax poor mademoiselle’s brain with many questions. I will leave you.”
And he withdrew, closing the door softly after him.
For a few minutes The Sparrow spoke to Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo about general things.
“I have been very ill,” she said in a low, tremulous voice. “I could think of nothing since my accident, until now—and now”—and she gazed around her with a new interest upon her handsome countenance—“and now I remember!—but it all seems too hazy and indistinct.”
“You recollect things—eh?” asked The Sparrow in a kindly voice, placing his hand upon her shoulder and looking into her tired eyes.
“Yes. I remember. All the past is slowly returning to me. It seems ages and ages since I last met you, Mr.—Mr. Peters,” and she laughed lightly. “Peters—that is the name?”
“It is, mademoiselle,” he laughed. “And it is a happy event that, by seeing us unexpectedly, your memory has returned. But the reason Mr. Henfrey is here is to resume that conversation which was so suddenly interrupted at the Villa Amette.”