At this amazing question the chauffeur started violently, looked up into the anxious, sunken eyes gazing into his own, and answered-- “No, to the best of my belief, I’ve never seen you before--never till I came here.” The man’s worn face worked with violent emotion--which he vainly struggled to subdue. “What!” he demanded, in a high, hoarse key, “have you forgotten Lucknow?--and Jim Ramsay of the Seventh? Impossible!” Wynyard glanced at him and again shook his head. After a long pause, expressive of indignant incredulity-- “Why, man alive, you and I were at school together! Don’t you remember your poky little room over the churchyard, and how we fagged for Toler, and played hard rackets?” As Wynyard still remained irresponsive, suddenly, to his horror, the questioner burst into tears and tottered unsteadily towards the door, wringing his hands, uttering loud convulsive sobs, and exclaiming, “As a dead man out of mind! As a dead man out of mind! Tell them to sound the Last Post!” There was a loud murmur from the card-players, and old Thunder, turning about and addressing the company, said-- “Poor old chap, ’e’s worse nor ever. At school together”--to Wynyard--“Lor’ bless me! why, ye might be his son! I suppose ’e’s a stranger to ye, mister?” “Yes; I never laid eyes on him before.” “He’s a-going off his nut,” declared a voice from the nap table; “he did ought to be put away--he did.” “Ay,” agreed the organist, addressing Wynyard, “his good lady won’t hear of it; but it’s my opinion that he is no longer safe to himself or others--it’s the loose and at-home lunatics that commit these awful crimes ye read of in the papers, and makes your blood run cold.” Wynyard made no reply. He had more than once heard Pither himself spoken of as a madman and a crazy fellow; but _he_ was merely eccentric. As for Captain Ramsay, he was lost in conjecture as to how that unfortunate and afflicted gentleman had got hold of his _real_ name? This mystery was solved no later than the next evening. In the lovely, soft June twilight he was walking past the Claringbold’s empty farm, and here came upon the captain, who was leaning over the gate, and signalled imperatively to him with his stick. “Look here!” he called out, and Wynyard stood still. “You’ve been a puzzle to me for nearly six weeks--and at last I’ve got you.” “Got _me_!” “Of course you are Owen Wynyard; you and I knew one another long ago. Why, man! we were schoolfellows, almost like brothers, and afterwards, when our two regiments lay in Lucknow--why, God bless me! it’s over thirty years ago!” Captain Ramsay had got hold of his right name, but otherwise he was a raving lunatic. “You are Owen Wynyard, aren’t you?” he asked impatiently. “Yes, I am, but I don’t use the Wynyard here; and I must beg you to keep it to yourself.” “Oh, all right; in one of your old scrapes, my boy! Money scarce! Ha ha!” and he laughed hysterically. “So you’re lying doggo from the Soucars, but why _here_?”