How had he happened to use the name of Geltman! "What would you say," continued the Doctor, without awaiting the answer, "if I were to tell you that I was Christopher Columbus and that Captain Weckerly here was Francisco Pizarro or Hernandez Cortes? You'd say we were mistaken, wouldn't you? Of course you would. When you say that you're Geltman and we know you're Fehrenbach----" "Stop!" roared the unhappy brewer, springing to his feet. "Stop, for the love of Heaven, and let me off this floating madhouse!" "Calm yourself!" "Calm myself! Can you not see that the whole thing is a terrible mistake? You have taken me for some one else. Last evening, I tell you, I was knocked down and drugged. Then I was carried to a boat and brought here. Look in my clothes, my handkerchiefs, my linen, you will see the monogram or initials C. G. Will not that be enough to satisfy you?" "My dear sir, I assure you you were brought aboard in the very clothes you now wear. Even that cap was on your head. Can't you remember coming up the gangway with Captain Weckerly?" And then, half aloud, and with looks of misgivings toward the Captain, who was shaking his head, "He's worse than I supposed." Geltman had taken off the yachting cap and there, perforated in the band, were the letters O. F. He searched his pockets and found a handkerchief with the same initials. As he did so he saw that the two men were looking at him with a expression of new interest and concern. His mind was still befogged. For the first time he really began to doubt himself, and the evidence of his belated memory. He had not heard that Otto Fehrenbach was mad. Was it possible that after all some dreadful misfortune had happened to him, Geltman? That a blow he had received in falling had turned his mind, and that his soul had migrated to the body of the hated Fehrenbach? And if so, did the soul of Fehrenbach occupy _his_ body? Fehrenbach, sitting in _his_ office, directing _his_ business with the shoddy methods of the Fehrenbachs, driving _his_ horses, and perhaps--could it be that he was at this moment marrying Juliet Hazard in his place? The thought of it made him sick. He was dimly conscious of some science which dealt with these things. He had once read a story of a happening of this kind at a German university. He looked at these strangers before him and found himself returning in kind their mysterious glances. Was he mad? Or were they? Or were they all mad together? He glanced aloft at the swaying masts. And the yacht, too? Was it real or was that, too, some fantasy of a diseased imagination? The _Fliegende Holländer_ flitted playfully into his mind. Just forward of the cabin a group of sailors were standing looking at him and whispering. It was uncanny. Were they, too, in the same state as the others? It could not be. The vessel was real. Geltman or Fehrenbach--he, himself, was real. There must be some one aboard the accursed craft who would listen to him and understand. Bewildered, he