your entirely forgetting him, even if you forgot your whole past
history."

This was a curious romance to me, that Minnie thus sprang on me--a
romance of my own past life of which I myself knew nothing.

We sat late talking, and I could see Minnie was very full indeed of
Dr. Ivor. Over and over again she recurred to his name, and always
as though she thought it might rouse some latent chord in my memory.
But nothing came of it. If ever I had cared for Dr. Ivor at all,
that feeling had passed away utterly with the rest of my
experiences.

When Minnie rose to go, I took her hand once more in mine. As I did
so, I started. Something about it seemed strangely familiar. I
looked at it close with a keen glance. Why, this was curious! It was
Aunt Emma's hand: it was my mother's hand: it was the hand in my
mental Picture: it was the hand of the murderer!

"It's just like auntie's," I said with an effort, seeing Minnie
noticed my start.

She looked at it and laughed.

"The Moore hand," she said gaily. "We all have it, except you. It's
awfully persistent."

I turned it over in front and examined the palm. At sight of it my
brain reeled. This was surely magic! Minnie Moore's hand, too, was
scarred over with cuts, exactly like Aunt Emma's!"