There can't be two like you in the world, you know." Thursday Smith stepped down from the platform and with a staggering gait walked to a stool, on which he weakly sank.

He wiped the beads of perspiration from his forehead and looked at Fogerty with a half frightened air.
"And you--are--McCormick ?" he faltered.
"Of course." Smith stared a moment and then shook his head.
"It's no use," he said despairingly; "I can't recall a single memory of either Harold Melville or--or his friend McCormick.

Pardon me, sir; I must confess my mind is absolutely blank concerning all my life previous to the last two years.

Until this moment I--I could not recall my own name." "H'm," muttered Fogerty; "you recall it now, don't you ?" "No.

You tell me my name is Melville, and you seem to recognize me as a man whom you once knew.