"That's curious!" she exclaimed, as though speaking to herself. "That's very curious. That hat is not mine, either!" "No, it isn't," I said, handing it to her to examine, which she did critically. Then, placing her hands idly upon her knees, she remained for a long time with brows knit in silence, apparently trying to recall the past. "You lost your chatelaine--the one I gave you," I said, hoping that the fact might, in some way, stir the chords of her blunted memory. "My chatelaine!" she repeated, looking at me vacantly. "Yes. You lost your purse and money, and other things," I said. "I think you must have lost it from a train." Suddenly she raised her face again to mine, and asked in a half-dazed kind of way: "Are you--_are you Claude_?" "Yes," I replied. "Surely you remember me!" "Oh--yes! But--oh! my head--my poor head!" and she placed her hands to her temples and drew a long breath. "Cannot you recollect--do try and tell me something. Try and describe to me what occurred after you left home. What happened to you?" She shook her head sadly. "I can't tell you," she said at last, speaking quite rationally. "I really can't." "But you must recollect something, dear?" I asked. "Your chatelaine was found dropped from a train on the line near Welwyn station, on the Great Northern Railway." "On the railway?" she repeated slowly. "Ah!" "That brings back something to your memory, dearest, does it not?" I inquired anxiously, for I now felt convinced that she remembered something regarding her loss. "Yes--but--but--well, I can't tell you about it, Claude." "You can't, dearest--or do you mean that you decline to tell me! Which?" For a few moments she was again silent. Her blank white face had become almost as its own self, with that sweet, calm smile I had known so well. "I must decline to tell you," she slowly answered at last. "I'm sorry-- but I--I only ask your forgiveness, Claude." "What is there for me to forgive?" I cried dismayed. "You disappeared. Everybody feared foul play--and--" "There was foul play!" she interrupted in a hoarse voice. "By whom?" "By somebody." "You know who were your enemies?" I asked quickly. "You must know, indeed." She nodded in the affirmative, her eyes once more downcast, as though fearing to meet my gaze. "Cannot you name them--cannot you denounce them, darling? It is your duty," I said in a low, persuasive tone. "Reveal the truth to me, Claude." "No, never!" was her plain and instant reply. "Why not?" "There are reasons." "What reasons?" "Reasons of my own. Strong reasons." "And may I not know them?" I asked with some resentment. "No, Claude--I can never reveal the truth--not even to you." She was now quite her old self. "But I thought we trusted each other blindly and implicitly," I protested. "You surely know how deeply and fondly I love you, my darling."