For a day or two after that I rested at Jane's, lest I should
disturb my brain too much. Then I called once more on the doctor who
had made the post mortem on my father, and given evidence at the
inquest, to see if anything he could say might recall my lapsed
memory.

The moment he came into the room--a man about fifty, close-shaven
and kindly-looking--I recognised him at once, and held out my hand
to him frankly. He surveyed me from head to foot with a good medical
stare, and then wrung my hand in return with extraordinary warmth
and effusion. I could see at once he retained a most pleasing
recollection of my First State, and was really glad to see me.

"What, you remember me then, Una!" he cried, with quite fatherly
delight. "You haven't forgotten me, my dear, as you've forgotten all
the rest, haven't you?"

It was startling to be called by one's Christian name like that, and
by a complete stranger, too; but I was getting quite accustomed now
to these little incongruities.

"Oh, yes; I remember you perfectly," I answered, half-grieved to
distress him, "though I shouldn't have known your name, and didn't
expect to see you. You're the doctor who attended me in my first
great illness--the illness with which my present life began--just
after the murder."

He drew back, a little crestfallen.