“In this case there is no necessity to enter into the question,” the doctor answered.  “The boy’s lapse of memory refers, as I told you, to his past life—­that is to say, his life when his intellect was deranged.  During the extraordinary interval of sanity that has now declared itself, he is putting his mental powers to their first free use; and none of them fail him, so far as I can see.  His new memory (if I may call it so) preserves the knowledge of what has happened since his illness.  You may imagine how this problem in brain disease interests me; and you will not wonder that I am going back to Sandsworth tomorrow afternoon, when I have done with my professional visits.  But you may be reasonably surprised at my troubling you with details which are mainly interesting to a medical man.”

Was he about to ask me to go with him to the asylum?  I replied very briefly, merely saying that the details were interesting to every student of human nature.  If he could have felt my pulse at that moment, I am afraid he might have thought I was in a fair way of catching the fever too.

“Prepare yourself,” he resumed, “for another surprising circumstance.  Mr. Winterfield is, by some incomprehensible accident, associated with one of the mischievous tricks played by the French boy, before he was placed under my friend’s care.  There, at any rate, is the only explanation by which we can account for the discovery of an envelope (with inclosures) found sewn up in the lining of the lad’s waistcoat, and directed to Mr. Winterfield—­without any place of address.”

I leave you to imagine the effect which those words produced on me.

“Now,” said the doctor, “you will understand why I put such strange questions to you.  My friend and I are both hard-working men.  We go very little into society, as the phrase is; and neither he nor I had ever heard the name of Winterfield.  As a certain proportion of my patients happen to be people with a large experience of society, I undertook to make inquiries, so that the packet might be delivered, if possible, to the right person.  You heard how Mrs. Eyrecourt (surely a likely lady to assist me?) received my unlucky reference to the madhouse; and you saw how I puzzled Sir John.  I consider myself most fortunate, Father Benwell, in having had the honor of meeting you?  Will you accompany me to the asylum to-morrow?  And can you add to the favor by bringing Mr. Winterfield with you?”

This last request it was out of my power—­really out of my power—­to grant.  Winterfield had left London that morning on his visit to Paris.  His address there was, thus far, not known to me.

“Well, you must represent your friend,” the doctor said.  “Time is every way of importance in this case.  Will you kindly call here at five to-morrow afternoon?”

I was punctual to my appointment.  We drove together to the asylum.