“For a time I struggled against the terrible fear--fear only for my little child--until some poor fellow who had the misfortune to resemble me was stabbed to death in the streets of London. My name and that of Count Crispi were attached to the handle of the murderer, and I knew its meaning! The newspapers made a great fuss of the mysterious tragedy, and I changed my name and sought retirement.” “Then your name is not Hamilton?” asked the baronet, greatly interested. “No; it is Egerton--Lambert Egerton. I even start when I utter it myself. Not one word of this story does my poor Theresa know--not even her real name; and thus have I lived for fifteen years, my waking and sleeping hours never free from the shadow of the knife! My own little fortune has long since gone, and my wife’s money I have not dared to claim.” “It is infamous!” Sir Harold said, when Hamilton had concluded. “I utterly refuse to leave you now, sir; I should be an ungrateful coward if I did. My place is here to protect Theresa--to make the poor child happy if I can.” “I will not give my consent yet,” Hamilton replied, distressfully, “and yet, why should I stand in the light of all that is near and dear to me? Not yet--not yet,” he added, “it would not be fair to you, Sir Harold. Your mind is not clear, and you do not rightly estimate the burden you would take upon yourself. Oh, my poor Theresa!” He clutched at his side, his face becoming pale and clammy with the dews of excruciating pain. “My old trouble,” he whispered to Sir Harold, who was anxiously bending over him. “There, it is gone. I am always bothered in this way if I become agitated. One word more; try and avoid my daughter for a little while, until both have had time for calm reflection. If I have rightly diagnosed your case, your memory will return by easy stages. Some of the brain cells are merely paralyzed, and in time will recover their action. You may then turn with disgust from your present surroundings and the thoughts that now----” “My friend--my good friend,” Sir Harold interrupted, “what you say is impossible. I accept from you the sacred trust of devoting my life to Theresa. I care for her deeply, and will protect her with my life, if need be. As for my memory, let me confess to you that many years of my early life are now as clear as noonday; but at that point where I left Eton for Cambridge all becomes enshrouded in an impenetrable mist.” “Ah! why did you not tell me this before?” Hamilton said, betraying much excitement.