orbed in the examination.

The doctor, as he ran back the right-arm sleeve, uttered an
exclamation. "Why, my dear sir," cried he, "here we have it! What more
can we want?"--and pointed at the arm. And Sally said, as though
relieved: "He's got his name written on him plain enough, anyhow!" Her
mother gave a sigh of relief, or something like it, and said, "Yes."
The patient himself seemed quite as much perplexed as pleased at the
discovery, saying only, in a subdued way: "It _must_ be my name." But
he did not seem to accept at all readily the name tattooed on his arm:
"A. Fenwick, 1878."

"Whose name can it be if it is not yours?" said Mrs. Nightingale. She
fixed her eyes on his face, as though to watch his effort of memory.
"Try and think." But the doctor protested.

"Don't do anything of the sort," said he. "It's very bad for him, Mrs.
Nightingale. He _mustn't_ think. Just let him rest."

The patient, however, could not resign himself without a struggle to
this state of anonymous ambiguity. His bewilderment was painful to
witness. "If it were my name," he said, speaking slowly and not very
clearly, "surely it would bring back the first name. I try to recall
the word, and the effort is painful, and doesn't succeed." His hostess
seemed much interested, even to the extent of ignoring the doctor's
injunctions.

"Very curious! If you heard the name now, would you recollect it?"

"I _wish_ you wouldn't try these experiments," says the doctor. "They
won't do him _any_ good. _Rest's_ the thing."

"I think I would rather try," says Fenwick, as we may now call him.
"I will be quiet if I can get this right."

Mrs. Nightingale begins repeating names that begin with A. "Alfred,
Augustus, Arthur, Andrew, Algernon----"

Fenwick's face brightens. "That's it!" says he. "Algernon. I knew it
quite well all the time, of course. But I couldn't--couldn't....
However, I don't feel that I shall make myself understood."

"I can't make out," said Sally, "how you came to remember the bottle
of eau-de-Cologne."

"I did not remember it. I do not now. I mean, how it came to be in the
pocket. I can remember nothing else that was there--would have been,
that is. There is nothing else there now, except my cigar-case and
a pocket-book with nothing much in it. I can tell nothing about my
watch. A watch ought to be there."

"There, there!" says the doctor; "you will remember it all presently.
Do take my advice and be quiet, and sit still an