The last words were almost a shout, and he shook as if he would have fallen. But T. Tembarom put his hand on his shoulder and held him, breathing fast himself. Gee! if it wasn't like a thing in a play! “Page at the court of Charles the Second,” he rattled off. “Died of smallpox when he was nineteen. Miles Hugo! Miles Hugo! You hold on to that for all your worth. And hold on to me. I'll keep you steady. Say it again.” “Miles Hugo.” The poor majestic-looking fellow almost sobbed it. “Where am I? What is the name of this place?” “It's Temple Barholm in the county of Lancashire, England. Hold on to that, too--like thunder!” Strangeways held the young man's arm with hands that clutched. He dragged at him. His nightmare held him yet; Tembarom saw it, but flashes of light were blinding him. “Who”--he pleaded in a shaking and hollow whisper--“are you?” Here was a stumper! By jings! By jings! And not a minute to think it out. But the answer came all right--all right! “My name's Tembarom. T. Tembarom.” And he grinned his splendid grin from sheer sense of relief. “I'm a New Yorker--Brooklyn. I was just forked in here anyhow. Don't you waste time thinking over me. You sit down here and do your durndest with Miles Hugo.” CHAPTER XXXIII Tembarom did not look as though he had slept particularly well, Miss Alicia thought, when they met the next morning; but when she asked him whether he had been disappointed in his last night's experiment, he answered that he had not. The experiment had come out all right, but Strangeways had been a good deal worked up, and had not been able to sleep until daylight. Sir Ormsby Galloway was to arrive in the afternoon, and he'd probably give him some-thing quieting. Had the coming downstairs seemed to help him to recall anything? Miss Alicia naturally inquired. Tembarom thought it had. He drove to Stone Hover and spent the morning with the duke; he even lunched with him. He returned in time to receive Sir Ormsby Galloway, however, and until that great personage left, they were together in Mr. Strangeways' rooms. “I guess I shall get him up to London to the place where Sir Ormsby wants him,” he said rather nervously, after dinner. “I'm not going to miss any chances. If he'll go, I can get him away quietly some time when I can fix it so there's no one about to worry him.” She felt that he had no inclination to go much into detail. He had never had the habit of entering into the details connected with his strange charge. She believed it was because he felt the subject too abnormal not to seem a little awesome to her sympathetic timidity. She did not ask questions because she was afraid she could not ask them intelligently. In fact, the knowledge that this unknown man was living through his struggle with his lost past in the remote rooms of the west wing, almost as though he were a secret prisoner, did seem a little awesome when one awoke in the middle of the dark night and thought of it.