Smith trembled a bit, from nervousness; but he persisted in his demand.

“These people are entitled to the truth,” said he.  “Tell us frankly all you know about me, and do not mince words—­whatever the truth may be.”

“Oh, it’s not so bad,” announced the detective, with a shrug; “or at least it wouldn’t be in New York, among your old aristocratic haunts.  But here, in a quiet country town, among these generous and simple-hearted folks who have befriended you, the thing is rather difficult to say.”

“Say it!” commanded Smith.

“I will.  Many New Yorkers remember the firm of Melville & Ford, the cleverest pair of confidence men who ever undertook to fleece the wealthy lambs of the metropolis.”

“Confidence men!” gasped Smith, in a voice of horror.

“Yes, putting it mildly.  You were both jolly good fellows and made a host of friends.  You were well-groomed, rode in automobiles, frequented good clubs and had a stunning establishment on Sixty-sixth street where you entertained lavishly.  You could afford to, for there was where you fleeced your victims.  But it wasn’t so very bad, as I said.  You chose the wealthy sons of the super-rich, who were glad to know such popular men-about-town as Harold Melville and Edgar Ford.  When one set of innocents had been so thoroughly trimmed that they compared notes and began to avoid you, you had only to pick up another bunch of lambs, for New York contains many distinct flocks of the species.  As they could afford to lose, none of them ever complained to the police, although the Central Office had an eye on you and knew your methods perfectly.

“Finally you made a mistake—­or rather Ford did, for he was not as clever as you were.  He brought an imitation millionaire to your house; a fellow who was putting up a brazen front on the smallest sort of a roll.  You won his money and he denounced you, getting away with a pack of marked cards for evidence.  At this you both took fright and decided on a hasty retreat.  Gathering together your plunder—­which was a royal sum, I’m convinced—­you and Ford jumped into a motor car and—­vanished from New York.

“The balance of your history I base on premise.  Ford has been located in Chicago, where, with an ample supply of money, he is repeating his New York operations; but Harold Melville has never been heard of until this day.  I think the true explanation is easily arrived at.  Goaded by cupidity—­and perhaps envy of your superior talents—­Ford took advantage of the situation and, finding the automobile speeding along a deserted road, knocked you on the head, tumbled you out of the car, and made off with your combined winnings.  The blow had the effect—­not so uncommon as you think—­of destroying your recollection of your past life, and you have for two years been wandering in total ignorance of what caused your affliction.”

During this recital Smith sat with his eyes eagerly fixed upon the speaker’s face, dwelling upon every word.  At the conclusion of the story he dropped his face in his hands a moment, visibly shuddering.  Then again he looked up, and after reading the circle of pitying faces confronting him he bravely met Mr. Merrick’s eyes.