"A remarkable case," the former was saying, as I began to listen. "He has been there longer than any other patient, and there has been neither improvement nor decline. A complete case of aphasia in some regards, amnesia in others; for we once succeeded in partly hypnotizing him and getting incoherent comments--in the choicest of English, however." "Is he sane, as regards the present--of passing events?" asked the general practitioner. "Sane as you or I, except in the relapses. He has illusions and hallucinations, but recovers himself without treatment other than seclusion. It is a case of second personality, no doubt; but there is no prognosis." "And you cannot classify it?" "No, except as double personality. He cannot remember his name before the time the police brought him to us. He began all over again, and is now an intelligent man, who reads the papers, and talks sanely." "Keep up that hypnotic treatment." "What's the use? We are busy over more modern and vital cases. He is merely a medical and physical curiosity." "Keep it up. By hypnotic treatment you can obtain his past and restore his memory. You know that. Isn't it worth while--to restore a man's soul to him?" "Well, perhaps I will; but I am very busy, and he is a hard subject to hypnotize." The car was approaching my corner. With my mind in a whirl that I could not understand, I arose, and, facing the two doctors, I asked them where this man was confined. "Bellevue," answered the narrator of the story. I thanked him, and went out, standing for a while on the corner, breathing deeply of the fresh air, and trying to analyze my state of mind. Something within me was beating against my poor, tired brain--something that would not take form and expression; something of truth and fact and experience of my own that I could not remember--something pertaining to my life at sea. At last I went home and sank into a troubled slumber, from which I wakened in the morning, not with any projects for the welfare of the man in the hospital, but for my own good. Hypnotic operations would restore memory; so the doctor had affirmed. My mind went at once to the successful hypnotist that I had seen at the theater, and, after a day of idleness and musing, I called there before the performance began. I met him, explained my loss of memory, and he promised to do what he could, appointing a meeting at his apartment at twelve, when the day's work was ended, and his mind and mine were tranquil. I was there on time. While well-dressed and well spoken, there was a slight burr to his voice and a roughness of the skin on the back of his neck that--I do not know why--betokens the outdoor, manual worker. He spoke gently to me, asked my name and occupation, and, when I told him that I was a collector, remarked that he had once been a collector himself. First seating me in an easy-chair, he faced me in another, and took my hands in his.