Shortly after the events which I last narrated I happened one sunny morning to be walking down Oxford-street. I had just come back from an interview with a firm of motor manufacturers. They had made me an offer, and I had refused it. As I was walking along I found myself touched on the arm by a girl of about my own age. She was extremely well dressed—much better dressed than I was; and in appearance she was not altogether unlike me except for two points—she was exceedingly pale, and her expression was one of acute anxiety.
“Will you help me?” she said.
It was impossible to suppose that she was a beggar. The idea that she was insane flashed across me for a moment; then I noted her extreme pallor and thought that she might be ill. I am not quite inhuman.
“Yes,” I said. “I will help you if I can. What is the matter?”
“I have lost my memory,” she said. “It has all gone suddenly and absolutely. I do not know what my name is or where I am. I am very reluctant to apply to the police—it means so much publicity. It would be horrible to me. If you could take me somewhere where I could rest for a little time I think my memory would come back again. I hope so. I can't tell you how grateful I should be to you.”
“What made you ask me?”
“Because you looked so nice,” she said simply. “A long stream of people went past me and at first they confused me very much; then I began looking at faces. I looked for a long time, and yours was the first I could trust. If you would take me with you I would not give you more trouble than I could help, and I would do everything I was told. I—I believe there is some money in the bag I have here.”
“That is not a very important point,” I said.
“I don't know. I think I must have money. I think I must always have had it. I have been looking at my clothes, and they seem to me to be very good.”
“So they are,” I said.
She smiled faintly. “It seems so queer to be talking to a stranger like this; only you see I don't know what to do. I don't know how I came here or where I am to go.”
I liked the girl. “At present,” I said, “you will come with me to my flat and have some luncheon. If your memory doesn't come back then you can stay there for the present. I have a spare room, and I will make you quite comfortable. I live alone. Then to-morrow, if your memory has not returned, we can talk about it and decide what is best to do. You must have friends. They will almost certainly advertise for you.”
“Thank you. Thank you so much. I feel quite safe now that I have met you. A few moments ago I was frightened out of my life. How long will it take us to walk to your flat?”
“I don't know,” I said, “and in all probability I never shall.” I stopped a four-wheeler that was crawling past us. The girl was obviously too tired and ill to walk. “Won't you get in?” I said.
She got in and leaned back. “I feel utterly worn out,” she said. “I shall have to wait a little before I can tell you how much I thank you.”
“Come,” I said. “You musn't be silly. After all, we are both human beings. Don't look on an act of ordinary decency as if it were unparalleled heroism.”
Again came that ghost of a smile. I could see that she and I would laugh at the same things, which is in itself a bond of union. She talked no more until we were nearing Hensley-mansions. When the cab stopped she was quite wide-awake and alert, but although she was sitting next the door she did not attempt to open it.
I noted that. The conscious mind could remember nothing, but the sub-conscious mind was remembering absolutely. She was a girl whose carriage-door was opened for her.