you.
She is leaving England, I believe. If you want work or help, why don't
you speak to Mr. Kenyon? He's the gentleman to find both for you--Mr.
Maurice Kenyon."

"Which is Mr. Kenyon?"

"There--he's just passing through the next ward; shall I speak to him
for you?"

"No, thank you: I don't want anything from him: I only wanted the lady's
name," said John Smith, in a dogged sullen kind of way, which made the
whitecapped nurse look at him suspiciously.

"Brooke!--Kenyon?"--How oddly familiar the names seemed to him! Of
course they were not very uncommon names; but there was a distinct
familiarity about them which had nothing to do with the names
themselves, as if they had some connection with his own history and his
own affairs.

He was discharged--"cured." He went out into the streets with
half-a-crown in his pocket, and a fixed determination to know the truth,
sooner or later, about himself. At the same time he had a great fear of
letting any one know the extent of the blanks in his memory. He thought
that people might shut him up in a madhouse if he told them that he
could not recollect his own name. A certain amount of intellectual force
and knowledge remained to him. He could read, and understand what he
read. But of his own history he had absolutely no idea; and the only
clue to it that he could find lay in those two names--Brooke and Kenyon.

Could he discover anything about the possessors of these names which
would help him? He entered a shop where a Post Office Directory was to
be found, and looked at Maurice Kenyon's name amongst the doctors. He
found Mr. Kenyon's private address; but as yet it told him nothing.
Woburn Place? Well, of course he had heard of Woburn Place, it was no
wonder that he should know it so well; but the name told him nothing
more.

He sat staring at it so long that the people of the shop grew impatient,
and asked him to shut the book. He went away, and wandered about the
streets, vaguely seeking for he knew not what. And after a time he
bought a newspaper. Here again he found the name that had attracted his
attention--the name of Kenyon. "Last appearance of Miss Kenyon at the
Frivolity Theatre--this week only."

"Who's Miss Ethel Kenyon?" he asked--drawing a bow at a venture--of his
neighbor in the dingy little coffeehouse into which he had turned. It
was ten to one that the man would not know; but he would ask.

As it happened, the young man did know. "She's an actress," he