may be only a double; a coincidence." He racked his brain for a stray
gleam of retrospect, but it was not forthcoming. "It's no use," he
sighed wearily, "my life began when I left the hospital. And if I was
Garrison, surely I would have been recognized by some one in New York.

"Hold on," he added eagerly, "I remember the first day I was out a man
caught me by the arm on Broadway and said: 'Hello, Billy!' Let me think.
This Garrison's name was Billy. The initials on my underwear were W.
G.--might be William Garrison instead of the William Good I took. But if
so, how did I come to be in the hospital without a friend in the world?
The doctors knew nothing of me. Haven't I any parents or relatives--real
relatives, not the ones I am imposing on?"

He sat on the bed endeavoring to recall some of his past life; even the
faintest gleam. Then absently he turned over the photograph he held. On
the reserve side of the leaf was the record of Billy Garrison. Garrison
studied it eagerly.

"Born in eighty-two. Just my age, I guess--though I can't swear how old
I am, for I don't know. Stable-boy for James R. Keene. Contract bought
by Henry Waterbury. Highest price ever paid for bought-up contract.
H'm! Garrison was worth something. First win on the Gravesend track when
seventeen. A native of New York City. H'm! Rode two Suburban winners;
two Brooklyn Handicaps; Carter Handicap; the Grand Prix, France; the
Metropolitan Handicap; the English Derby--Oh, shucks! I never did all
those things; never in God's world," he grunted wearily. "I wouldn't be
here if I had. It's all a mistake. I knew it was. Sue was kidding me.
And yet--they say the real Billy Garrison has disappeared. That's funny,
too."