"But I don't even know my name, or whether I'm married or not,"
whined the outcast. "I might have a good wife and little ones."

"Better keep on forgetting, mate," Mitchell said, "and as for a
name, that's nothing. I don't know mine, and I've had eight. There's
plenty good names knocking round. I knew a man named Jim Smith that
died. Take his name, it just suits you, and he ain't likely to call
round for it; if he does, you can say you was born with it."

So they called him Smith, and soon began to regard him as a harmless
lunatic and to take no notice of his eccentricities. Great interest
was taken in the case for a time, and even Mitchell put in his oar
and tried all sorts of ways to assist the Mystery in his weak,
helpless, and almost pitiful endeavours to recollect who he was. A
similar case happened to appear in the papers at this time, and the
thing caught on to such an extent that The Oracle was moved to impart
some advice from his store of wisdom.

"I wouldn't think too much over it if I was you," said he to
Mitchell, "hundreds of sensible men went mad over that there
Tichborne case who didn't have anything to do with it, but just
through thinking on it; and you're ratty enough already, Jack. Let it
alone and trust me to find out who's Smith just as soon as ever we cut
out."

Meanwhile Smith ate, worked, and slept, and borrowed tobacco and
forgot to return it--which was made a note of. He talked freely about
his case when asked, but if he addressed anyone, it was with the air
of the timid but good young man, who is fully aware of the extent and
power of this world's wickedness, and stands somewhat in awe of it,