I almost began to doubt that I would ever succeed in reconstructing my past, when even the sight of the home in which I had spent my childish days suggested so few new thoughts or ideas to me.

For a day or two after that I rested at Jane’s, lest I should disturb my brain too much.  Then I called once more on the doctor who had made the post mortem on my father, and given evidence at the inquest, to see if anything he could say might recall my lapsed memory.

The moment he came into the room—­a man about fifty, close-shaven and kindly-looking—­I recognised him at once, and held out my hand to him frankly.  He surveyed me from head to foot with a good medical stare, and then wrung my hand in return with extraordinary warmth and effusion.  I could see at once he retained a most pleasing recollection of my First State, and was really glad to see me.

“What, you remember me then, Una!” he cried, with quite fatherly delight.  “You haven’t forgotten me, my dear, as you’ve forgotten all the rest, haven’t you?”

It was startling to be called by one’s Christian name like that, and by a complete stranger, too; but I was getting quite accustomed now to these little incongruities.

“Oh, yes; I remember you perfectly,” I answered, half-grieved to distress him, “though I shouldn’t have known your name, and didn’t expect to see you.  You’re the doctor who attended me in my first great illness—­the illness with which my present life began—­just after the murder.”

He drew back, a little crestfallen.

“Then that’s all you recollect, is it?” he asked.  “You don’t remember me before, dear?  Not Dr. Marten, who used to take you on his knee when you were a tiny little girl, and bring you lollipops from town, to the great detriment of your digestion, and get into rows with your poor father for indulging you and spoiling you?  You must surely remember me?”

I shook my head slowly.  I was sorry to disappoint him; but it was necessary before all things to get at the bare truth.

“I’m afraid not,” I answered.  “Do please forgive me!  You must have read in the papers, like everybody else, of the very great change that has so long come over me.  Bear in mind, I can’t remember anything at all that occurred before the murder.  That first illness is to me the earliest recollection of childhood.”

He gazed across at me compassionately.

“My poor child,” he said in a low voice, like a very affectionate friend, “it’s much better so.  You have been mercifully spared a great deal of pain.  Una, when I first saw you at The Grange after your father’s death, I thanked heaven you had been so seized.  I thanked heaven the world had become suddenly a blank to you.  I prayed hard you might never recover your senses again, or at least your memory.  And now that you’re slowly returned to life once more, against all hope or fear, I’m heartily glad it’s in this peculiar way.  I’m heartily glad all the past’s blotted out for you.  You can’t understand that, my child?  Ah, no, very likely not.  But I think it’s much best for you, all your first life should be wholly forgotten.”  He paused for a second.  Then he added slowly:  “If you remembered it all, the sense of the tragedy would be far more acute and poignant even than at present.”