ich she laid on the library table--a watch and chain and cornelian
heart, a cigarette case bearing the initials "P.S.," some keys, a very
soiled handkerchief, a sovereign, a shilling and a penny. Dr. Fuller
had sent them down with his compliments; they were the entire contents
of the young gentleman's pockets.

"Not a card, not a scrap of paper with a name and address on it?" cried
Miss Winwood.

"Not a scrap, miss. The doctor and I searched most thoroughly."

"Perhaps the knapsack will tell us more," said the Archdeacon.

The knapsack, however, revealed nothing but a few toilet necessaries, a
hunk of stale bread and a depressing morsel of cheese, and a pair of
stockings and a shirt declared by the housekeeper to be wet through. As
the Beranger, like the Sir Thomas Browne, was inscribed "Paul Savelli,"
which corresponded with the initials on the cigarette case, they were
fairly certain of the young man's name. But that was all they could
discover regarding him.

"We'll have to wait until he can tell us himself," said Miss Winwood
later to the doctor.

"We'll have to wait a long time," said he.

CHAPTER IX

THE London physician arrived, sat up with Paul most of the night, and
went away the next morning saying that he was a dead man. Dr. Fuller,
however, advanced the uncontrovertible opinion that a man was not dead
till he died; and Paul was not dead yet. As a matter of fact, Paul did
not die. If he had done so, there would have been an end of him and
this history would never have been written. He lay for many days at the
gates of Death, and Miss Winwood, terribly fearful lest they should
open and the mysterious, unconscious shape of beauty and youth should
pass through, had all the trouble promised her by the doctor. But the
gates remained shut. When Paul took a turn for the better, the London
physician came down again and declared that he was living in defiance
of all the laws of pathology, and with a graceful compliment left the
case in the hands of Dr. Fuller. When his life was out of danger, Dr.
Fuller attributed the miracle to the nurses; Ursula Winwood attributed
it to Dr. Fuller; the London physician to Paul's superb constitution;
and Paul himself, perhaps the most wisely, to the pleasant-faced,
masterful lady who had concentrated on his illness all the resources of
womanly tenderness.

But it was a long time before Paul was capable of formulating such an
opinion. It was a long time before he could