“What is the name of these roses, d’you know?” he asked the waiter.  The waiter was ready at all times to conceal his ignorance concerning items of the wine-list or menu; he was frankly ignorant as to the specific name of the roses.

“Amy Sylvester Partinglon,” said a voice at Jerton’s elbow.

The voice came from a pleasant-faced, well-dressed young woman who was sitting at a table that almost touched Jerton’s.  He thanked her hurriedly and nervously for the information, and made some inconsequent remark about the flowers.

“It is a curious thing,” said the young woman, that, “I should be able to tell you the name of those roses without an effort of memory, because if you were to ask me my name I should be utterly unable to give it to you.”

Jerton had not harboured the least intention of extending his thirst for name-labels to his neighbour.  After her rather remarkable announcement, however, he was obliged to say something in the way of polite inquiry.

“Yes,” answered the lady, “I suppose it is a case of partial loss of memory.  I was in the train coming down here; my ticket told me that I had come from Victoria and was bound for this place.  I had a couple of five-pound notes and a sovereign on me, no visiting cards or any other means of identification, and no idea as to who I am.  I can only hazily recollect that I have a title; I am Lady Somebody—­beyond that my mind is a blank.”

“Hadn’t you any luggage with you?” asked Jerton.

“That is what I didn’t know.  I knew the name of this hotel and made up my mind to come here, and when the hotel porter who meets the trains asked if I had any luggage I had to invent a dressing-bag and dress-basket; I could always pretend that they had gone astray.  I gave him the name of Smith, and presently he emerged from a confused pile of luggage and passengers with a dressing-bag and dress-basket labelled Kestrel-Smith.  I had to take them; I don’t see what else I could have done.”

Jerton said nothing, but he rather wondered what the lawful owner of the baggage would do.

“Of course it was dreadful arriving at a strange hotel with the name of Kestrel-Smith, but it would have been worse to have arrived without luggage.  Anyhow, I hate causing trouble.”

Jerton had visions of harassed railway officials and distraught Kestrel-Smiths, but he made no attempt to clothe his mental picture in words.  The lady continued her story.

“Naturally, none of my keys would fit the things, but I told an intelligent page boy that I had lost my key-ring, and he had the locks forced in a twinkling.  Rather too intelligent, that boy; he will probably end in Dartmoor.  The Kestrel-Smith toilet tools aren’t up to much, but they are better than nothing.”

“If you feel sure that you have a title,” said Jerton, “why not get hold of a peerage and go right through it?”