Still sustaining his weight, the author of “The Amateur Detective” at first seemed nonplussed; but quickly changed his expression to one of abrupt intelligence.

“I see, now; I begin to see,” he answered, slowly, and almost in a whisper.  “On the night of that Christmas dinner here, you were in a clove-trance, and made some secret disposition, (which you have not since been able to remember,) of your umbrella—­and nephew.  Until very lately—­until now, when you are nearly, but not quite, as much under the influence of cloves again—­you have had a vague general idea that somebody else must have killed Mr. Drood and stolen your umbrella.  But now, that you are partially in the same condition, physiologically and psychologically, as on the night of the disappearance, you have once more a partial perception of what were the facts of the case.  Am I right?”

“That’s it, sir.  You’re a ph’los’pher,” murmured Mr. Bumstead, trying to brush from above his nose the pendent lock of hair, which he took for a fly.

“Very well, then,” continued Tracey CLEWS, his extraordinary head of hair fairly bristling with electrical animation:  “You’ve only to get yourself into exactly the same clove-y condition as on the night of the double disappearance, when you put your umbrella and nephew away somewhere, and you’ll remember all about it again.  You have two distinct states of existence, you see:  a cloven one, and an uncloven one; and what you have done in one you are totally oblivious of in the other.”

Something like an occult wink trembled for a moment in the right eye of Mr. Bumstead.

“Tha’s ver’ true,” said he, thoughtfully.  “I’ve been ’blivious m’self, frequently.  Never c’d r’member wharIowed.”

“The idea I’ve suggested to you for the solution of this mystery,” went on Mr. CLEWS, “Is expressed by one of the greatest of English writers; who, in his very last work, says; ’—­in some cases of drunkenness, and in others of animal magnetism, there are two states of consciousness which never clash, but each of which pursues its separate course as though it were continuous instead of broken.  Thus, if I hide my watch when I am drunk, I must be drunk again before I can remember where.’[2]”

“I’m norradrink’n’man, sir,” returned Mr. Bumstead, drawing coldly back from him, and escaping a fall into the fireplace by a dexterous surge into the nearest chair.  “Th’ lemon tea which I take for my cold, or to pr’vent the cloves from disagreeing with me, is norrintoxicating.”

“Of course not,” assented his subtle counsellor; “but, in this country, at least, chronic inebriation, clove-eating, and even opium-taking, are strikingly alike in their aspects, and the same rules may be safely applied to all.  My advice to you is what I have given.  Cause a table to be spread in this room, exactly as it was for that memorable Christmas-dinner; sit down to it exactly as then, and at the same hour; go through all the same processes as nearly as you can remember; and, by the mere force of association, you will enact all the final performances with your umbrella and your nephew.”