“No--we had left the trenches behind us. We were fighting in the forest--I can remember that--a sort of ravine with splintered trees--we were attacking----” A new note of interest came into his voice, a satisfaction at recovering these memories. “By George, yes! Of course, there was a terrific attack on--we were going for the Kriemhild Line. What happened----?” He hesitated. “I was running forward--the Boche was shelling like mad----” He seemed to be visualizing a scene, his face screwed up, his eyes narrowed, his lower lip between his teeth. “I saw a whole bunch go down--and then----” He stopped. “And then?” “A sheet of flame. I--I can’t remember anything more. I--I must have been hit, I suppose----” “I see. Now, can you remember what you were wearing just then?” “I was in shirt and breeches. My tunic had been torn off the day before--breaking through the undergrowth. I remember that perfectly.” Satterthwaite nodded. “And your identity disc?” “I’d lost that the day before also--I remember thinking I should have to get a new one.” Satterthwaite smiled. “We’re coming to it,” he said, encouragingly. “Now--just before you came into this flat, where were you?” “In a street-car. I got off at the corner in the usual way, and let myself in with my key.” “You had that key in France, I suppose?” “Yes, I had it with a few others on a ring in my breeches-pocket. I kept it for the day I should come back.” “Quite. Now--before you got into that street-car, where were you? Where had you been?” Tremaine hesitated again. “I can’t for the life of me remember!--I--I sort of woke up in that street-car, as if I had been to sleep on my way home. I remember looking out and thinking to myself--of course, that’s where I am--nearly home. It seemed quite natural.” Obviously, the man himself was puzzled. There was a short silence, and then Satterthwaite spoke again. “And you remember nothing of what you did between the day you attacked the Kriemhild Line--and finding yourself in the street-car?” Tremaine frowned in a desperate effort to collect his thoughts. “No,” he said at last. “It’s an extraordinary thing but my mind seems a complete blank!” “Can you remember the date of that attack upon the Kriemhild Line--the day you saw that sheet of flame go up?” “October tenth,” came the reply without hesitation. “What year?” “1918, of course.” Satterthwaite smiled. “Do you know what year this is?” The other stared at him, a sudden fear in his eyes. “Not 1919?” he cried. “Don’t say I’ve lost a year?” “1920!” “Good God!” He jumped up, gripped in a panic that drove the blood out of his face, and switched round to his wife. “Evelyn! Where have I been? Haven’t I been here all this time?” She took a deep breath. “I see you to-day for the first time since you sailed in April, 1918, Harry,” she said, steadily.