“And I want to examine him, in another room where the light is a little better. Just quite alone, where he won’t be distracted.” But instantly the girl was up in arms. “You’re taking ’im away from me—that’s wot yer doing. And I won’t ’ave it. Yer don’t want to go, Bill, do yer? Yer don’t want to leave yer Liz?” And Jimmy Lethbridge bit his lip; Mainwaring had been right. “I’m not going to take him away, Lizzie,” said the doctor gently. “I promise you that. You shall see him the very instant I’ve made my examination. But if you’re there, you see, you’ll distract his attention.” She took a step forward, staring at the doctor as if she would read his very soul. And in the infinite pathos of the scene, Jimmy Lethbridge for the moment forgot his own suffering. Lizzie—the little slum girl—fighting for her man against something she couldn’t understand; wondering if she should trust these two strangers. Caught in a net that frightened her; fearful that they were going to harm Bill. And at the bottom of everything the wild, inarticulate terror that she was going to lose him. “You swear it?” she muttered. “I can see ’im after yer’ve looked at ’im.” “I swear it,” said Mainwaring gravely. She gave a little sob. “Orl right, I believe yer on the level. You go with ’im, Bill. Perhaps ’e’ll do yer ’ead good.” “’E’s queer sometimes at night,” said Lizzie, as the door closed behind Mainwaring. “Seems all dazed like.” “Is he?” said Jimmy. “How did you find him, Lizzie?” “’E was wandering round—didn’t know nuthing about ’imself,” she answered. “And I took ’im in—and looked after ’im, I did. Saved and pinched a bit, ’ere and there—and then we’ve the barrel-organ. And we’ve been so ’appy, mister—so ’appy. Course ’e’s a bit queer, and ’e don’t remember nuthing—but ’e’s orl right if ’e don’t get ’is ’eadaches. And when ’e does, I gets rid of them. I jest puts ’is ’ead on me lap and strokes ’is forehead—and they goes after a while. Sometimes ’e goes to sleep when I’m doing it—and I stops there till ’e wakes again with the ’ead gone. Yer see, I understands ’im. ’E’s ’appy with me.” She was staring at the photograph—a pathetic little figure in her tawdry finery—and for a moment Jimmy couldn’t speak. It had to be done; he had to do it—but it felt rather like killing a wounded bird with a sledge-hammer—except that it wouldn’t be so quick. “He’s a great brain surgeon, Lizzie—the gentleman with Bill,” he said at length, and the girl turned round and watched him gravely. “And he thinks that an operation might cure him and give him back his memory.” “So that ’e’d know ’e was an orficer?” whispered the girl. “So that he’d know he was an officer,” said Jimmy. “So that he’d remember all his past life. You see, Lizzie, your Bill is really Sir Peter Staunton—whom we all thought had been killed in the war.” “Sir Peter Staunton!” she repeated dazedly. “Gawd!”