"Odd, wasn't it? And he _was_ hungry too. They brought him some more a little while after, and he didn't funk it a bit,--pitched into it, in fact, like anything, and ate it all with some cold beef. It's the way with some lunatics--never the same five minutes together. He keeps crying like a baby, and saying things we can't understand. As it happens, there's nobody in just now who speaks French." "I speak French," Hewitt replied. "Shall I try him?" "Certainly, if you will. He's in the men's room below. They've been making him as comfortable as possible by the fire until the doctor comes. He's a long time. I expect he's got a case on." Hewitt found his way to the large mess-room, where three or four policemen in their shirt-sleeves were curiously regarding a young man of very disordered appearance who sat on a chair by the fire. He was pale, and exhibited marks of bruises on his face, while over one eye was a scarcely healed cut. His figure was small and slight, his coat was torn, and he sat with a certain indefinite air of shivering suffering. He started and looked round apprehensively as Hewitt entered. Hewitt bowed smilingly, wished him good-day, speaking in French, and asked him if he spoke the language. The man looked up with a dull expression, and after an effort or two, as of one who stutters, burst out with, "_Je le nie!_" "That's strange," Hewitt observed to the men. "I ask him if he speaks French, and he says he denies it--speaking _in_ French." "He's been saying that very often, sir," one of the men answered, "as well as other things we can't make anything of." Hewitt placed his hand kindly on the man's shoulder and asked his name. The reply was for a little while an inarticulate gurgle, presently merging into a meaningless medley of words and syllables--"_Qu'est ce qu'_--_il n'a_--Leystar Squarr--_sacré nom_--not spik it--_quel chemin_--sank you ver' mosh--_je le nie! je le nie!_" He paused, stared, and then, as though realizing his helplessness, he burst into tears. "He's been a-cryin' two or three times," said the man who had spoken before. "He was a-cryin' when we found him." Several more attempts Hewitt made to communicate with the man, but though he seemed to comprehend what was meant, he replied with nothing but meaningless gibber, and finally gave up the attempt, and, leaning against the side of the fireplace, buried his head in the bend of his arm. Then the doctor arrived and made _his_ examination. While it was in progress Hewitt took aside the policeman who had been speaking before and questioned him further. He had himself found the Frenchman in a dull back street by Golden Square, where the man was standing helpless and trembling, apparently quite bewildered and very weak. He had brought him in, without having been able to learn anything about him. One or two shopkeepers in the street where he was found were asked, but knew nothing of him--indeed, had never seen him before.