"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.I accept your statement in good faith，but I cannot corroboratea it from my own knowledge.""That's queer，"retorted Fogerty，his cold eyes ？xed uponthe man's face.
"Let me explain，please，"said Smith，and related his curious experience in practically the same words he had employed when confiding it to Mr.Merrick."I had hoped，"he concluded，"that if ever I met one who knew me formerly，or heard my right name mentioned，my memory would come back to me；but in this I am sorely disappointed.Did you know me well，sir？""Pretty well，"answered the detective，after a slight hesitation.
"Then tell me something about myself.Tell me who I was.""Here—in public？"asked Fogerty，with a suggestiveglance at the spectators，who had involuntarily crowded nearer.
Smith ？ushed，but gazed ？rmly into the faces surroundinghim.
"Why not ？"he returned."These young ladies and Mr.
Merrick accepted me without knowledge of my antecedents.They are entitled to as full an explanation as—as I am.""You place me，Melville，in a rather embarrassing position，"declared Fogerty."This is a queer case—the queerest in all my experience.Better let me post you in a private interview."Smith trembled a bit，from nervousness；but he persistedin his demand.
"These people are entitled to the truth，"said he."Tell us frankly all you know about me，and do not mince words—whatever the truth may be.""Oh，it's not so bad，"announced the detective，with ashrug；"or at least it wouldn't be in New York，among your old aristocratic haunts.But here，in a quiet country town，among these generous and simple—hearted folks who have befriended you，the thing is rather dif？cult to say.""Say it ！"commanded Smith.
"I will.Many New Yorkers remember the ？rm of Melville&Ford，the cleverest pair of confidence men who ever undertook to ？eecea the wealthy lambsb of the metropolis.""Con？dence menc！"gasped Smith，in a voice of horror.
"Yes，putting it mildly.You were both jolly good fellows and made a host of friends.You were well—groomed，rode in automobiles，frequented good clubs and had a stunning establishment on Sixty—sixth street where you entertained lavishly.You could afford to，for there was where you ？eeced your victims.But it wasn't so very bad，as I said.You chose the wealthy sons of the super—rich，who were glad to know such popular men—about—townd as Harold Melville and Edgar Ford.When one set of innocents had been so thoroughly trimmed that they compared notes and began to avoid you，you had only to pick up another bunch of lambs，for New York contains many distinct ？ocks of the species.As they could afford to lose，none of them ever complained to the police，although the Central Of？ce had an eye on you and knew yourmethods perfectly.
"Finally you made a mistake—or rather Ford did，for he was not as clever as you were.He brought an imitation millionaire to your house；a fellow who was putting up a brazen front on the smallest sort of a roll.You won his money and he denounced you，getting away with a pack of marked cards for evidence.At this you both took fright and decided on a hasty retreat.Gathering together your plundera—which was a royal sum，I'm convinced—you and Ford jumped into a motor car and—vanished from New York.