nt on. He halted once again at Third street,
surveying a tall brick building with a clock tower.

"What place is that?" he queried of a bystander.

"That? Why, the Chronicle building."

The stranger was silent for a moment. Then he said, in a curious,
detached tone, "I thought it was at Bush and Kearney."

"Oh, not for eight years," said the other. "Did you live here,
formerly?"

"I? No." He spoke evasively and hurried on. "I wonder what made me say
that?" he mumbled to himself.

Down Kearney street he walked. Now and then his eyes lit as if with some
half-formed memory and he made queer, futile gestures with his hands.
Before a stairway leading to an upper floor, he stopped, and, with the
dreamy, passive air of a somnambulist, ascended, entering through
swinging doors a large, pleasant room, tapestried, ornamented with
paintings and statuary. Half a dozen men lounging in large leathern
chairs glanced up and away with polite unrecognition. The stranger was
made aware of a boy in a much-buttoned uniform holding a silver tray.

"Who do you wish to see, sir?"

"Oh--ah--" spoke the stranger, "this is the Bohemian Club, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir. Shall I call the house manager, sir?"

At the other's nod he vanished to return with a spectacled man who
looked inquiring.

"I beg your pardon--for intruding," said the bearded man slowly. "But--I
couldn't help it.... I was once a member here."

"Indeed?" said the spectacled man, tentatively cordial, still inquiring.
"And you're name--"

From the bearded lips there came a gutteral sound--as if speech had
failed him. He gazed at the spectacled personage helplessly. "I--don't
know." Sudden weakness seemed to seize him. Still with the helpless
expression in his eyes, he retreated, found a chair and sank into it. He
passed a hand feverishly before his eyes.

The spectacled man acted promptly.

"Garrison, you're one of the ancients round this club," he addressed a
smiling, gray-haired man of plump and jovial mien. "Come and talk to the
Mysterious Stranger.... Says he was a member ten or fifteen years
ago.... Can't recollect who he is."

"What do you wish me to do?" asked Garrison.

"Pretend to recognize him. Talk to him about the Eighties.... Get him
oriented. It's plainly a case of amnesia."

He watched Garrison approach the bearded man with outstretched hand; saw
the other take it, half reluctantly. The two retired to an alcove, had a
drink and soon were deep in con