“In order to find the exact point at which I must begin,” I said, “I shall have to ask you a few questions. In the first place, do you remember the hut on the bank of the river where you lived?”
“Yes, perfectly well.”
“Good. Do you remember your first coming to that hut through the Karamea bush?”
“Yes, I remember that.”
“Well now, one question more; can you remember the place you set out from on that occasion?”
Grey took his cigar from his lips and fixed his eyes on the lamp, while a dreamy, puzzled expression came on his face. At last, drawing his hand over his brow, he turned to me and said: “Perhaps it will be your turn now to doubt either my sanity or my story; but, nevertheless, what I am about to tell you is the sober truth. Four or five days before reaching that hut something happened to me, I don’t know what, but at all events I have never been able to recall anything that transpired previously. The last I can remember, and it is a very dim memory, is that I found my way down from a high place among the mountains. All beyond that is a blank in my mind—a blank containing nothing but the consciousness of something forgotten.”
“I doubt neither your sanity nor your story,” I hastened to reply. “Besides, I have ample evidence of the truth of what you say; and not only that, but I can set before you various important details of your past life which, as I said, will startle you.”
He scanned my face again more eagerly than before. “Are you an old friend whose face and name I have forgotten?” he asked wistfully.
“No, not that,” I replied. “I have my information from the Maoris. Do you know that you have a wife and daughter, Mr. Grey?”
He started. Then leaning forward over the table and looking earnestly in my face, he asked, hoarsely: