'You've not forgotten there is such a country as Germany, then?'

'Oh, no.' And then he sighed, as if trying to recollect something. 'I say,' he went on, 'my mind is a curious business. I know that Germany is a country in Europe. I can even remember the German language. I know that Berlin is the capital of the country, and I can recall the names of many of their big towns,--Leipzig, Frankfurt, Munich, Nuremburg; I have a sort of fancy that I have visited them; but I know nothing of the history of Germany,--that is all a blank. Funny, isn't it?' and then he sighed again.

'As it happens,' I said, 'I have to speak at a recruiting meeting to-night, here in Plymouth. Would you like to come? I am going to deal with the reasons for the war, and to show why it is every chap's duty to do his bit.'

'I'd love to come. My word! what's that?'

Away in the distance there was a sound of martial music, and as the wind was blowing from the south-west the strains reached us clearly.

Evidently some soldiers were marching with a band.

'It's fine, isn't it!' he cried. He threw back his shoulders, stood perfectly erect, and his footsteps kept perfect time to the music. I felt more than ever convinced that he had had some former a.s.sociation with the Army.

On our way to the recruiting meeting, however, he seemed to have forgotten all about it. He was very listless, and languid, and depressed. He was like a man who wanted to hide himself from the crowd, and he slunk along the streets as though apologizing for his presence.

'That's the hall,' I said, pointing to a big building into which the people were thronging.

'I shall not be noticed, shall I? If you think I should, I'd rather not go.'

'Certainly not. Who's going to notice you? I'll get you a seat on the platform if you like.'

'Oh, no, no. Let me slink behind a pillar somewhere. No, please don't bother about me, I'll go in with that crowd. I'll find you after the meeting.' He left me as he spoke, and a minute later I had lost sight of him.

I am afraid I paid scanty attention to what was said to me in the anteroom, prior to going into the hall. The man interested me more than I can say. I found myself wondering who he was, where he came from, and what his experiences had been. More than once, I doubted whether I had not been the victim of an impostor. The story of his loss of memory was very weak and did not accord with the spirit of the men in the anteroom, who were eagerly talking about the war; or with the purposes of the meeting. And yet I could not help trusting in him, he was so frank and manly. In a way, he was transparent, too, and talked like a grown-up child.

When I entered the hall, which was by this time crowded with, perhaps, two thousand people, I scanned the sea of faces eagerly, but could nowhere see the man who had adopted the name of Paul Edgec.u.mbe. I doubted whether he was there at all, and whether I should ever see him again. Still, I did not see what purpose he could have had in deceiving me. He had received nothing from me, save his dinner at the hotel, which I had persisted in paying for in spite of his protests.

The clothes he wore were paid for by his own money, and he showed not the slightest expectation of receiving any benefits from me.

Just as I was called upon to speak, I caught sight of him. He was sitting only a few rows back from the platform, close to a pillar, and his eyes, I thought, had a vacant stare. When my name was mentioned, however, and I stood by the table on the platform, waiting for the applause which is usual on such an occasion to die down, the vacant look had gone. He was eager, alert, attentive.

Usually I am not a ready speaker, but that night my work seemed easy.

After I had sketched the story of the events which led to the war, the atmosphere became electric, and the cause I had espoused gripped me as never before, and presently, when I came to the application of the story I had told, and of our duty as a nation which pretended to stand for honour and truth, and Christianity, my heart grew hot, and the meeting became wild with enthusiasm.

Just as I was closing, I looked toward the pillar by which Paul Edgec.u.mbe sat, and his face had become so changed that I scarcely knew him. There were no evidences of the drawn, parchment-like skin; instead, his cheeks were flushed, and looked youthful. His eyes were no longer wistful and sad, but burned like coals of fire. He was like a man consumed by a great pa.s.sion. If he had forgotten the past, the present, at all events, was vividly revealed to him.

Before I sat down, I appealed for volunteers. I asked the young men, who believed in the sacredness of promises, in the honour of life, in the sanct.i.ty of women, to come on to the platform, and to give in their names as soldiers of the King.

There was no applause, a kind of hush rested on the audience; but for more than a minute no one came forward. Then I saw Paul Edgec.u.mbe make his way from behind the pillar, and come towards the platform, the people cheering as he did so. He climbed the platform steps, and walked straight toward the chairman, who looked at him curiously.

'Will you take me, sir?' he said, and his voice rang out clearly among the now hushed audience.

'You wish to join, do you?'

'Join!' he said pa.s.sionately, 'how can a man, who is a man, do anything else?'

What I have related describes how I first met Paul Edgec.u.mbe, and how he joined the Army. At least a hundred other volunteers came forward that night, but I paid little attention to them. The man whose history was unknown to me, and whose life-story was unknown even to himself, had laid a strong hand upon me.

As I look back on that night now, and as I remember what has since taken place, I should, if power had been given me to read the future, have been even more excited than I was.

CHAPTER II

SIR ROGER GRANVILLE'S SUGGESTION

When the meeting was over, I looked around for my new acquaintance, but he was nowhere to be found. I waited at the hall door until the last man had departed, but could not see him. Thinking he might have gone to the hotel where we had had dinner, I went up to The Hoe, and inquired for him; but he had not been seen. He had vanished as suddenly as he had appeared.

I must confess that I was somewhat anxious about him, and wondered what had become of him. He was alone; he knew no one but myself; he had lost his memory; he was utterly ignorant of Plymouth, and I feared lest something untoward should have happened to him. However, I reflected that, as volunteers had been ordered to report themselves at the barracks at nine o'clock on the following morning, I should find him there.

I went to the house I was staying at, therefore, hoping, in spite of my misgivings, that all would be well.

I had no opportunity of going to the barracks, however. Before I had finished breakfast the next day a telegram arrived, ordering me to go to Falmouth by the earliest possible train on an urgent matter. This necessitated my leaving Plymouth almost before my breakfast was finished. All I could do, therefore, was to scribble him a hasty line, explaining the situation, and urging him to communicate with me at an address I gave him in Falmouth. I also told him that on my return to Plymouth I would look him up, and do all I could for him.

As events turned out, however, I did not get back for more than a week, and when I did, although I made careful inquiries, I could learn nothing. Whether he remained in Plymouth, or not, I could not tell, and of course, among the thousands of men who were daily enlisting, it was difficult to discover the whereabouts of an unknown volunteer.

Moreover, there were several recruiting stations in Plymouth besides the barracks, and thus it was easy for me to miss him.

Months pa.s.sed, and I heard nothing about Paul Edgec.u.mbe, and if the truth must be told, owing to the multifarious duties which pressed upon me at that time, I almost forgot him. But not altogether. Little as I knew of him, his personality had impressed itself upon me, while the remembrance of that wild flash in his eyes as he came on to the platform in Plymouth, and declared that he should join the Army, was not easily forgotten.

One day, about three months after our meeting, I was lunching with Colonel Gray in Exeter, when Sir Roger Granville, who was chairman of the meeting at which Edgec.u.mbe had enlisted, joined us.

'I have often thought about that fellow who joined up at Plymouth, Lus...o...b..,' he said. 'Have you ever heard any more about him?'

I shook my head. 'I've tried to follow him up, too. The fellow has had a curious history.' Whereupon I told Sir Roger what I knew about him.

'Quite a romance,' laughed Colonel Gray. 'It would be interesting to know what becomes of him.'

'I wonder who and what he is?' mused Sir Roger.

'Anything might happen to a fellow like that. He may be a peer or a pauper; he may be married or single, and there may be all sorts of interesting developments.'

He grew quite eloquent, I remember, as to the poor fellow's possible future, and would not listen to Colonel Gray's suggestions that probably everything would turn out in the most prosaic fashion.

About five o'clock that evening our train arrived at a little roadside station, where Sir Roger Granville's motor-car awaited us. It was a beautiful day in early summer, and the whole countryside was lovely.

'No wonder you Devonshire people are proud of your county,' I said, as the car swept along a winding country lane.

'Yes, you Cornishmen may well be jealous of us, although, for that matter, I don't know whether I am a Cornishman or a Devonshire man.

There has always been a quarrel, you know, as to whether the Granvilles belonged to Cornwall or Devon, although I believe old Sir Richard was born on the Cornish side of the county boundary. In fact, there are several families around here who can hardly tell the county they hail from. You see that place over there?' and he pointed to a fine old mansion that stood on the slopes of a wooded hill.

'It's a lovely spot,' I ventured.

'It is lovely, and George St. Mabyn is a lucky fellow. But _a propos_ of our conversation, George does not know which county his family came from originally, Cornwall or Devon. St. Mabyn, you know, is a Cornish parish, and I suppose that some of the St. Mabyns came to Devonshire from Cornwall three centuries ago. That reminds me, he is dining with us to-night. If I mistake not, he is a bit gone on a lady who's staying at my house,--fascinating girl she is, too; but whether she'll have him or not, I have my doubts.'

'Why?' I asked.

'Oh, she was engaged to his elder brother, who was killed in Egypt, and who was heir to the estate. It was awfully sad about Maurice,--fine fellow he was. But there was a row with the Arabs up by the Nile somewhere, and Maurice got potted.'

'And George not only came into the estate, but may also succeed to his brother's sweetheart?' I laughed.