Thayer had turned away and evidently sought a chair at the other side of the room. Barry remained perfectly still. Five minutes passed. Ten. There came no sound from the chair; instinctively the man on the bed knew that Thayer was watching him, waiting for the first flicker of an eyelid, the first evidence of returning consciousness. Five minutes more and Barry rewarded the vigil. He drew his breath in a shivering sigh. He turned and groaned,--quite naturally with the pain from his splintered arm. His eyes opened slowly, and he stared about him, as though in non-understanding wonderment, finally to center upon the window ahead and retain his gaze there, oblivious of the sudden tensity of the thin-faced Thayer. Barry Houston was playing for time, playing a game of identities. In the same room was a man he felt sure to be an enemy, a man who had in his care everything Barry Houston possessed in the world, every hope, every dream, every chance for the wiping out of a thing that had formed a black blot in the life of the young man for two grim years, and a man who, Barry Houston now felt certain, had not held true to his trust. Still steadily staring, he pretended not to notice the tall, angular form of Fred Thayer as that person crossed the brightness of the window and turned toward the bed. And when at last he did look up into the narrow, sunken face, it was with eyes which carried in them no light of friendship, nor even the faintest air of recognition. Thayer put forth a gnarled, frost-twisted hand. "Hello, kid," he announced, his thin lips twisting into a cynical smile that in days gone by had passed as an affectation. Barry looked blankly at him. "Hello." "How'd you get hurt?" "I don't know." "Old Man Renaud here says you fell over the side of Two Mile Hill. He picked you up about six o'clock this morning. Don't you remember?" "Remember what?" The blank look still remained. Thayer moved closer to the bed and bending, stared at him. "Why, the accident. I'm Thayer, you know--Thayer, your manager at the Empire Lake mill." "Have I a manager?" The thin man drew back at this and stood for a moment staring down at Houston. Then he laughed and rubbed his gnarled hands. "I hope you've got a manager. You--you haven't fired me, have you?" Barry turned his head wearily, as though the conversation were ended. "I don't know what you are talking about." "You--don't--say, you're Barry Houston, aren't you?" "I? Am I?" "Well, then, who are you?" The man on the bed smiled. "I'd like to have you tell me. I don't know myself." "Don't you know your name?" "Have I one?" Thayer, wondering now, drew a hand across his forehead and stood for a moment in disconcerted silence. Again he started to frame a question, only to desist. Then, hesitatingly, he turned and walked to the door. "Ba'tiste." "Ah, _oui_!"