Then he closed his eyes and tried to think; but he could remember nothing.  There was, it seemed, no continuity anywhere.  But it suddenly struck him that if he knew that he was a Domestic Prelate, and if he could recognize a Franciscan, he must have seen those phenomena before.  Where?  When?

Little pictures began to form before him as a result of his intense mental effort, but they were far away and minute, like figures seen through the wrong end of a telescope; and they afforded no explanation.  But, as he bent his whole mind upon it, he remembered that he had been a priest—­he had distinct memories of saying mass.  But he could not remember where or when; he could not even remember his own name.

This last horror struck him alert again. He did not know who he was.  He opened his eyes widely, terrified, and caught the eye of an old priest in cotta and cassock who was looking back at him over his shoulder.  Something in the frightened face must have disturbed the old man, for he detached himself from the group and came up the two steps to his side.

“What is it, Monsignor?” he whispered.

“I am ill . . .  I am ill . . . father,” he stammered.

The priest looked at him doubtfully for an instant.

“Can you . . . can you hold out for a little?  The sermon must be nearly—–­”

Then the other recovered.  He understood that at whatever cost he must not attract attention.  He nodded sharply.

“Yes, I can hold out, father; if he isn’t too long.  But you must take me home afterwards.”

The priest still looked at him doubtfully.

“Go back to your place, father.  I’m all right.  Don’t attract attention.  Only come to me afterwards.”

The priest went back, but he still glanced at him once or twice.

Then the man who did not know himself set his teeth and resolved to remember.  The thing was too absurd.  He said to himself he would begin by identifying where he was.  If he knew so much as to his own position and the dresses of those priests, his memory could not be wholly gone.

In front of him and to the right there were trees, beyond the heads of the crowd.  There was something vaguely familiar to him about the arrangement of these, but not enough to tell him anything.  He craned forward and stared as far to the right as he could.  There were more trees.  Then to the left; and here, for the first time, he caught sight of buildings.  But these seemed very odd buildings—­neither houses nor arches—­but something between the two.  They were of the nature of an elaborate gateway.

And then in a flash he recognized where he was.  He was sitting, under this canopy, just to the right as one enters through Hyde Park Corner; these trees were the trees of the Park; that open space in front was the beginning of Rotten Row; and Something Lane—­Park Lane—­(that was it!)—­was behind him.

Impressions and questions crowded upon him quickly now—­yet in none of them was there a hint as to how he got here, nor who he was, nor what in the world was going on.  This friar!  What was he doing, preaching in Hyde Park?  It was ridiculous—­ridiculous and very dangerous.  It would cause trouble. . . .