A certain part of his brain had stopped working. It was that part which reasoned from memory. He remembered nothing. He did things without knowing why he did them. He came to a road; he knew it was a road, and knew what roads were for. He followed it. He was dimly conscious that he was not in a normal condition, but the fact did not distress him: on the contrary he experienced a fine lightness of spirit; it was enough for him that the blood was stirring in his veins, and the night air was cool and sweet.

Presently he heard a whirring sound familiar to his senses, and saw the oscillating reflection of a bright light around a bend in the road; an automobile. He hastily dived into the underbrush at the side. He had no reason to be afraid, but he felt a shivering repugnance to showing himself to his fellow-creatures in his present state.

When the car had pa.s.sed he returned to the road. A few paces further on the trees at his right hand opened up, and a wonderful panorama was spread before him; a great, dark, gleaming river far below, and on the other side myriads upon myriads of fairy-like white lights like fireflies arrested in mid-flight. From this direction came the faint hum he had remarked.

Evan knew instinctively that this was the city, and that he must get there. He saw further that he was bound in the wrong direction. The way he was heading the lights were thinning out; the thickest cl.u.s.ters were behind him. His instinct further told him that where the lights were thick he would find a means of crossing the river. So he retraced his steps.

Bye and bye houses began to rise alongside the road, all dark-windowed and still. "It is very late," thought Evan. Finally the road came to an end at the gates of a ferry-house. Evan automatically produced a coin to pay his fare, and pa.s.sed on board the boat. There were but few pa.s.sengers. He gave them a wide berth.

Reaching the other sh.o.r.e he started walking towards the centre of the city. Coming to a place where trains of cars pa.s.sed to and fro on a trestle overhead, he climbed a flight of steps to a station, and producing another coin, took a seat in the first train that came. He was perfectly able to see, to hear, to read the advertising cards in the train, but it was all new and inexplicable to him. Some power outside of his consciousness was directing his steps. In the brightly-lighted car he shivered under the gaze of his fellow-pa.s.sengers, but n.o.body paid him any special regard.

At a certain station something stirred his feet, and they bore him off the train, down the steps and through certain streets to a certain door facing upon a little Park. Fronted by this door his hand dived into his pocket and brought forth a key which opened it. Like a sleep-walker he mounted to the top of the house and entered a room there. Something in the aspect of this room caused a deep sigh of satisfaction to escape him; he knew where everything was without lighting the gas. Undressing and climbing into bed he fell into a dreamless sleep.

He was awakened by a pillow flung at his head. He beheld a grinning, sharp-featured face under a shock of lank, mola.s.ses-candy-coloured hair, a face as dear and familiar to him as the room, and he knew that the owner of it was called Charley.

"Aren't you going to get up to-day?"

"Go to h.e.l.l!" said Evan, grinning back. Oh but the sight of his friend was good to his eyes! Something real, something familiar, something that identified this poor wandering soul and gave it a locus.

"You must have made a night of it," remarked Charley.

Some deep instinct still bade Evan to conceal his condition. "What's for breakfast?" he cried, jumping up.

"Same old stunt! Beggs and acon."

"Gee! I'm as hungry as a hunter. Break me three Humpty-dumpties and fry them sunny side up."

Charley perceived nothing amiss. Breakfast was partaken of to the accompaniment of the usual airy persiflage. Evan knew very well that Charley could supply the clues to his lost ident.i.ty, but he couldn't bring himself to ask him directly. He kept his ears open for any chance remarks that might throw light on the matter, but Charley's style was so flowery he didn't get much. Charley finally departed on some errand of his own.

Left alone, Evan went about his room, touching the familiar objects, looking into everything, trying to fill in that blank s.p.a.ce in his mind. As soon as he saw the paraphernalia he knew he was a painter.

His pictures interested him greatly. He knew they were his own pictures, but he had lost all sense of kinship with them. In a way it was a great advantage; he brought a fresh point of view to bear.

"I see what's the matter with them," he said to himself. "You have been trying to convey the inner spirit of things without being sufficiently sure of their outward form. What you've got to do is to study the outsides of things further, and invite the spirit to express itself."

So interested was he that he put a fresh canvas on his easel on the spot, and started to paint. Any object would serve to prove his new theory; their brown pitcher with a broken spout and a green bowl beside it on the table. An hour pa.s.sed without his noticing its flight.

Charley returned.

"h.e.l.lo!" he said. "Had another row with your old man?"

"Old man!" thought Evan. "Oh, nothing much," he said aloud.

"Well, I must say you take your job pretty lightly," said Charley.

Evan thought: "So I have a job."

Charley went on: "There was a story in the paper this morning about one of your lot. I brought it in. Sounds fishy."

Evan p.r.i.c.ked up his ears.

Charley read: "A reporter a.s.signed to police headquarters happened to see Inspector Durdan, chief of the Detective Bureau, and five plain clothes men climbing into a covered motor van on Mulberry street yesterday, and scenting a good story, followed in a taxi-cab.

Naturally the Inspector does not personally take part except in raids of some importance. The chase led to No. 11 Van Dorn street. Van Dorn is an obscure little street on the far West side. An agitated individual was discovered on the steps of this house whom the reporter recognised as Mr. George Deaves, son of the multi-millionaire. He cried out to the police: 'He's gone in! He's gone in!' The police forced their way into the house. One was left at the door, and the reporter was not allowed to enter. Through the open door he saw other police inside, who must have entered from the back. They were searching the house. One called down-stairs: 'They've gone over the roofs towards MacDougall street,' whereupon several of the police started to run down the block to the corner of MacDougall and the reporter followed. He was just in time to see two men issue from a tenement house carrying what looked like the corpse of a third between them. The body was wrapped in an old cotton comforter. They threw it in a waiting taxi and made a getaway though the police fired in the air, and ordered them to stop. At police headquarters all information was refused. At Mr. Deaves' residence word was sent out that Mr.

Deaves had not been out that morning. The woman who keeps the Van Dorn street house, a Mrs. Patten, either would not or could not tell what had happened."

At this point in the story Charley looked up to see how Evan was taking it. Seeing Evan's expression he forgot to read the rest. Evan was staring into vacancy as if he saw a ghost. As a matter of fact complete recollection had returned in a great flash, and the reaction was dizzying. His first conscious act was to feel of his temple. It was whole.

"What's the matter with you?" cried Charley.

"I--I was that corpse," stammered Evan.

"Have you gone crazy?"

"Here, I've got to see about this!" cried Evan, and seizing his hat he ran out.

Evan took a taxi-cab to the Deaves house. He took out his pocket book to pay the driver. It was the first time he had used it. The money in it was intact, but something had been added, a little note. Evan read it while the driver made change.

"You've got good pluck. When the pistol missed fire we decided to let you off. Take warning. Keep away from the Deaves outfit or next time you'll get a ball."

Evan thought: "The pistol did not miss fire. It was loaded with a blank. The whole scene was staged just to break my nerve. I pa.s.sed out temporarily just as a result of self-suggestion. Lord! what a weak-minded fool I was! But by G.o.d! I'll get square with them! This is how I answer their threat!"

He glared around him defiantly, hoping he was watched, and rang the bell of the Deaves house.

The servant who opened the door looked at him queerly. This successor to Alfred was more respectful, but Evan did not trust him much further.

"Where is Mr. George Deaves?" asked Evan.

"I don't think you can see him just now, sir," was the answer. "He's up-stairs."

"And Mr. Simeon Deaves?"

"He's in the library, I believe."

"I'll go up there."

As they got further into the house shrill cries, m.u.f.fled by several doors, reached Evan's ears.

"What's that?" he asked startled.

"Mrs. Deaves, sir," said the man demurely.

"What's the matter with her?"

"Hysterics, I believe, sir."

"Ah!" said Evan.

He found Simeon Deaves in the library. The old man greeted him with the unvarying sly grin. There was something inhuman about that grin.

Nothing could move the old man much--save the threatened loss of money.