The man started and scrambled to his feet as though he were frightened. He was wet, unshaven, white and shuddering, piteous to look at. He stared with wild eyes, his chest heaving. “What's up?” said Tembarom. The man's breath caught itself. “I don't remember.” There was a touch of horror in his voice, though he was evidently making an effort to control him-self. “I can't--I can't remember.” “What's your name? You remember that?” Tembarom put it to him. “N-n-no!” agonizingly. “If I could! If I could!” “How did you get in here?” “I came in because I saw a policeman. He wouldn't understand. He would have stopped me. I must not be stopped. I MUST not.” “Where were you going?” asked Tembarom, not knowing what else to say. “Home! My God! man, home!” and he fell to shuddering again. He put his arm against the boarding and dropped his head against it. The low, hideous sobbing tore him again. T. Tembarom could not stand it. In his newsboy days he had never been able to stand starved dogs and homeless cats. Mrs. Bowse was taking care of a wretched dog for him at the present moment. He had not wanted the poor brute,--he was not particularly fond of dogs,--but it had followed him home, and after he had given it a bone or so, it had licked its chops and turned up its eyes at him with such abject appeal that he had not been able to turn it into the streets again. He was unsentimental, but ruled by primitive emotions. Also he had a sudden recollection of a night when as a little fellow he had gone into a vacant lot and cried as like this as a child could. It was a bad night when some “tough” big boys had turned him out of a warm corner in a shed, and he had had nowhere to go, and being a friendly little fellow, the unfriendliness had hit him hard. The boys had not seen him crying, but he remembered it. He drew near, and put his hand on the shaking shoulder. “Say, don't do that,” he said. “I'll help you to remember.” He scarcely knew why he said it. There was something in the situation and in the man himself which was compelling. He was not of the tramp order. His wet clothes had been decent, and his broken, terrified voice was neither coarse nor nasal. He lifted his head and caught Tembarom's arm, clutching it with desperate fingers. “Could you?” he poured forth the words. “Could you? I'm not quite mad. Something happened. If I could be quiet! Don't let them stop me! My God! my God! my God! I can't say it. It's not far away, but it won't come back. You're a good fellow; if you're human, help me! help me! help me!” He clung to Tembarom with hands which shook; his eyes were more abject than the starved dog's; he choked, and awful tears rolled down his cheeks. “Only help me,” he cried--“just help, help, help--for a while. Perhaps not long. It would come back.” He made a horrible effort. “Listen! My name--I am--I am--it's--”