“Remember what?” I cried, all eagerness; for I saw she attached some special importance to the recollection.  And yet, it was terrible she should jest about the clue to my father’s murderer!

Minnie looked arch.  When she looked arch, she was charming.

“Why, I never saw you prettier or more engaging in your life than you were that day,” she said evasively, as if trying to pique me.  “And you flirted so much, too!  And everybody admired you so.  Everybody on the grounds... especially one person!”

I looked up at her in surprise.  I was in my own room, seated by the dressing-table, late at night, when we’d gone up to bed; and Minnie was beside me, standing up, with her bedroom candle in that pretty white little hand of hers.

“What do you mean?” I exclaimed eagerly.  “Was it a dance—­or a picnic?”

“Oh, you know very well,” Minnie went on teasingly, “though you pretend you forget.  He was there, don’t you know.  You must remember him, if you’ve forgotten all the rest of your previous life.  You say you remember the appropriate emotions.  Well, he was an emotion:  at least, you thought so.  It was an Athletic Club Meeting:  and Dr. Ivor was there.  He went across on his bicycle.”

I gave a start of surprise.  Minnie looked down at me half maliciously.

“There, you see,” she said archly again, “at Dr. Ivor you change colour.  I told you you’d remember him!”

I grew pale with astonishment.

“Minnie dear,” I said, holding her hands very tight in my own, “it wasn’t that, I assure you.  I’ve forgotten him, utterly.  If ever I knew a Dr. Ivor, if ever I flirted with him, as you seem to imply, he’s gone clean out of my head.  His name stirs no chord—­recalls absolutely nothing.  But I want to know about that Athletic Meeting.  Was my poor father there that day?  And did he take a set of photographs?”

Minnie clapped her hands triumphantly.

“I knew you remembered!” she cried.  “Of course, Cousin Vivian was there.  We drove over in a break.  You must remember that.  And he took a whole lot of instantaneous photographs.”

My hand trembled violently in my cousin’s.  I felt I was now on the very eve of a great discovery.

“Minnie,” I said, tentatively, “do you think your papa would drive us over some day and—­and show us the place again?”

“Of course he would, dear,” Minnie answered, with a gentle pressure of my hand.  “He’d be only too delighted.  Whatever you choose.  You know you were always such a favourite of daddy’s.”

I knew nothing of the sort; but I was glad to learn it.  I drew Minnie out a little more about the Athletics and my visit to Berry Pomeroy.  She wouldn’t tell me much:  she was too illusive and indefinite:  she never could get the notion out of her head, somehow, that I remembered all about it, and was only pretending to forgetfulness.  But I gathered from what she said, that Dr. Ivor and