he was talking to Norah
Blackwater, who was again a visitor to Bolivick.

'By the way,' went on Sir Thomas, 'that fellow Edgecumbe has developed
wonderfully, hasn't he? Of course what he said last night was so much
nonsense. I quite agree that it's very sad about--that--is--some of
the things he talked about, but as to the rest,--it was moonshine.'

'You wouldn't have said so if you'd been there, Sir Thomas,' I ventured.

'Something's going to happen, Luscombe,' Edgecumbe said to me as
presently we found our way to our rooms.

'Why do you say so?'

'I don't know. But there is. It's in the air we breathe. I know I'm
right.'

'What's the matter with you?' I asked, looking at him intently.

'Nothing. Yes there is though. I'm feeling mighty queer.'

'Are you ill?'

'No, nothing of the sort. But I'm nervous. I feel as though great
things were on foot. The air is charged with great things. Something
big is going to take place.'

He was silent a few seconds, and then went on, 'I had a long talk with
a doctor in France a few days ago.'

'What doctor? What did he tell you?' I asked eagerly.

'One of our men out there. He had a big practice as a consulting
physician in Harley Street until a few months ago, when he offered
himself to the Army. He is a nerve specialist, and years ago paid
great attention to brain troubles. He was so kind to me, and was such
an understanding fellow that I told him my story. He was awfully
interested, and said that he never knew but one case where loss of
memory had continued so long as it had with me.'

'Did he give you any hope?' I asked.

He shook his head doubtfully. 'He would not say anything definite. He
seemed to think that as my general health had been good for so long,
and as my memory had not come back, it might be a very long time before
there was any change. All the same, he felt sure that it was only a
matter of time. He seemed to regard my trouble as a kind of artificial
barrier which divided the past from the present, but that time would
constantly wear away the barrier. He also said that if some very vivid
and striking happening were to take place, something that was vitally
connected with my past, it might suddenly pierce it--tear it aside, and
let in the light.'

'And--and----?'

'No, Luscombe,' he interrupted, as if divining my thoughts, 'I know of
nothing, I remember nothing. But there was something else he told me
which makes me have fai