he had come to the place where he was, it all grew vague and intricate by turns, and his memories faded away like the dreams we try to recall when we can only just recollect that we have had a dream of some sort.  He knew that he was called Marcello, but the rest was gone; he knew that a beautiful creature had taken care of him, and that her name was Regina.  How long?  How many days and nights had he lain in the attic, hot by day and cold at night?  He could not guess, and it tired him to try.

The doctor asked two or three questions while he examined him, and then stood quite still for a few seconds, watching him intently.  The two young house surgeons who accompanied the great man kept a respectful silence, waiting for his opinion.  When he found an interesting case he sometimes delivered a little lecture on it, in a quiet monotonous tone that did not disturb the other patients.  But to-day he did not seem inclined to talk.

“Convalescent,” he said, “at least of the fever.  He needs good food more than anything else.  In two days he will be walking about.”

He passed on, but in his own mind he was wondering what was the matter with the young man, why he had lost his memory, and what accident had brought him alone and friendless to one of the city hospitals.  For the present it would be better to let him alone rather than tire him by a thorough examination of his head.  There was probably a small fracture somewhere at the back of the skull, the doctor thought, and it would be easy enough to find it when the patient was strong enough to sit up.

The doctor had not been long gone when an elderly man with a grizzled moustache and thoughtful eyes was led to Marcello’s bedside by the Superintendent himself.  The appearance of the latter at an unusual hour was always an event in the ward, and the nurses watched him with curiosity.  They would have been still more curious had they known that the elderly gentleman was the Chief of the Police himself.  The Superintendent raised his hand to motion them away.

“What is your name, sir?” asked the Chief, bending down and speaking in a low voice.

“Marcello.”

“Yes,” replied the other, almost in a whisper, “you are Marcello.  But what else?  What is your family name?  It is very important.  Will you tell me?”

The vague look came into Marcello’s eyes, and then the look of pain, and he shook his head rather feebly.

“I cannot remember,” he answered at last.  “It hurts me to remember.”

“Is it Consalvi?” asked the officer, smiling encouragement.

“Consalvi?” Marcello’s eyes wandered, as he tried to think.  “I cannot remember,” he said again after an interval.

The Chief of Police was not discouraged yet.

“You were knocked down and robbed by thieves, just after you had been talking with Aurora,” he said, inventing what he believed to have happened.

A faint light came into Marcello’s eyes.