She had mentioned fifteen years. Fifteen years is a long time.
'Would it be too late,' I asked, somewhat timorously, 'to offer you congratulations?'
'Not if you dare do it,' she answered, with such fine intrepidity that I was silent, and began to crease patterns on the cloth with my thumb nail.
'Tell me one thing,' she said, leaning toward me rather eagerly-- 'a thing I have wanted to know for many years--just from a woman's curiosity, of course--have you ever dared since that night to touch, smell or look at white roses--at white roses wet with rain and dew?'
I took a sip of
'It would be useless, I suppose,' I said, with a sigh, 'for me to repeat that I have no recollection at all about these things. My memory is completely at fault. I need not say how much I regret it.'
The lady rested her arms upon the table, and again her eyes disdained my words and went traveling by their own route direct to my soul. She laughed softly, with a strange quality in the sound--it was a laugh of happiness--yes, and of content--and of misery. I tried to look away from her.
'You lie, Elwyn Bellford,' she breathed, blissfully. 'Oh, I know you lie!'
I gazed dully into the ferns.
'My name is Edward Pinkhammer,' I said. 'I came with the delegates to the Druggists' National Convention. There is a movement on foot for arranging a new position for the bottles of tartrate of antimony and tartrate of potash, in which, very likely, you would take little interest.'
A shining landau stopped before the entrance. The lady rose. I took her hand, and bowed.
'I am deeply sorry,' I said to her, 'that I cannot remember. I could explain, but fear you would not understand. You will not concede Pinkhammer; and I really cannot at all conceive of the--the roses and other things.'
'Good-by, Mr. Bellford,' she said, with her happy, sorrowful smile, as she stepped into her carriage.
I attended the theatre that night. When I returned to my hotel, a quiet man in dark clothes, who seemed interested in rubbing his finger nails with a silk handkerchief, appeared, magically, at my side.
'Mr. Pinkhammer,' he said, giving the bulk of his attention to his forefinger, 'may I request you to step aside with me for a little conversation? There is a room here.'
'Certainly,' I answered.
He conducted me into a small, private parlor. A lady and a gentleman were there. The lady, I surmised, would have been unusually good-looking had her features not been clouded by an expression of keen worry and fatigue. She was of a style of figure and possessed coloring and features that were agreeable to my fancy. She was in a traveling dress; she fixed upon me an earnest look of extreme anxiety, and pressed an unsteady hand to her bosom. I think she would have started forward, but the gentleman arrested her movement with an authoritative motion of his hand. He then came, himself, to meet me. He was a man of forty, a little gray about the temples, and with a strong, thoughtful face.
'Bellford, old man,' he said, cordially, 'I'm glad to see you again. Of course we know everything is all right. I warned you, you know, that you were overdoing it. Now, you'll go back with us, and be yourself again in no time.'
I smiled ironically.
'I havae been 'Bellforded' so often,' I said, 'that it has lost its edge. Still, in the end, it may grow wearisome. Would you be willing at all to entertain the hypothesis that my name is Edward Pinkhammer, and that I never saw you before in my life?'
Before the man could reply a wailing cry came from the woman. She sprang past his detaining arm. 'Elwyn!' she sobbed, and cast herself upon me, and clung tight. 'Elwyn,' she cried again, 'don't break my heart. I am your wife--call my name once--just once. I could see you dead rather than this way.'
I unwound her arms respectfully, but firmly.
'Madam,' I said, severely, 'pardon me if I suggest that you accept a resemblance too precipitately. It is a pity,' I went on, with an amused laugh, as the thought occurred to me, 'that this Bellford and I could not be kept side by side upon the same shelf like tartrates of sodium and antimony for purposes of identification. In order to understand the allusion,' I concluded airily, 'it may be necessary for you to keep an eye on the proceedings of the Druggists' National Convention.'
The lady turned to her companion, and grasped his arm.
'What is it, Doctor Volney? Oh, what is it?' she moaned.
'Go to your room for a while,' I heard him say. 'I will remain and talk with him. His mind? No, I think not-- only a portion of the brain. Yes, I am sure he will recover. Go to your room and leave me with him.'
The lady disappeared. The man in dark clothes also went outside, still manicuring himself in a thoughtful way. I think he waited in the hall.
'I would like to talk with you a while, Mr. Pinkhammer, if I may,' said the gentleman who remained.
'Very well, if you care to,' I replied, 'and will excuse me if I take it comfortably; I am rather tired.' I stretched myself upon a couch by a window and lit a cigar. He drew a chair nearby.
'Let us speak to the point,' he said, soothingly. 'Your name is not Pinkhammer.'
'I know that as well as you do,' I said, coolly. 'But a man must have a name of some sort. I can assure you that I do not extravagantly admire the name of Pinkhammer. But when one christens one's self suddenly, the fine names do not seem to suggest themselves. But, suppose it had been Scheringhausen or Scroggins! I think I did very well with Pinkhammer.'
'Your name,' said the other man, seriously, 'is Elwyn C. Bellford. You are one of the first lawyers in Denver. You are suffering from an attack of aphasia, which has caused you to forget your identity. The cause of it was over-application to your profession, and, perhaps, a life too bare of natural recreation and pleasures. The lady
