Dr. Morning (whose acquaintance I had continued) came and saw my friend, and saw me afterwards. I gave him no information and no lead. “Well?” I said. “Yes, Miss Castel,” said the doctor. “Your friend--by the way you forgot to give me her name--is extremely anæmic. She is recovering from a severe illness. She has had diphtheria badly. Let her rest and feed her up, and don’t let her worry. She seems inclined to worry about something or other. I’ll send something round for her directly.” After the doctor had gone I found from my friend that she had been perplexed by some of his questions. She hoped that she had answered rightly--that he had suspected nothing. I recalled the faintest possible twinkle in Dr. Morning’s eye as he told me that I had forgotten to give him my friend’s name. I wished now that I had made a clean breast of it. He was probably aware, anyhow, that he was dealing with a quite interesting case of amnesia. The whole thing came out as my friend was going to bed. I had gone to her room with her, and as she was saying good night she suddenly observed, “But I don’t know your name. It’s ridiculous. I never asked you. Do tell me what your name is.” “I’m Miss Castel--Wilhelmina Castel.” She clasped her hands impulsively together, and then pressed them over her eyes. “Wait!” she cried. “Wait! It’s all coming back. You cannot be Miss Castel. I’m Miss Castel--Cynthia Castel. I remember it distinctly. I remember Marley Court, and my sweet nurse Rose. Yes, I remember everything.” I laughed. “It’s all quite simple,” I said. “Marley Court is where my grandfather lives. He quarrelled with my father--you may have heard him speak of it. You are a daughter of my father’s younger brother. I heard of you as a baby once in days long back. We are first cousins. Isn’t it ridiculous and melodramatic?” After that there was a long hour’s talk. My cousin’s memory had come back as suddenly as it had gone. This, I was told afterwards, is not unusual. She could tell me a good deal about my grandfather. One sentence stuck in my memory, “He’s not violent any more.” Cynthia had lived with him since her parents’ death. I was calling her Cynthia before the end of that hour’s talk, when I reproached myself for keeping her awake too long and insisted on leaving her. Her joy at recovering her memory was pathetic, and her intense gratitude to myself was absurd. “Suppose,” she said, “that I had not asked you for your name?” “Well,” I said, “aren’t your things marked?” She shook her head. “Only initials.” “And the bag?” I asked.