"Look up, you--" muttered the detective, jerking his head again.
"This losing your memory stuff doesn't go down with me!" His eyes
bored into the Unknown's.
"It doesn't--go down--very well--with me--either," said the
Unknown weakly, making no movement of protest against Anderson's
rough handling.
"Did you ever see me before?" demanded the latter. Beresford held
the candle closer so that he might watch the Unknown's face for any
involuntary movement of betrayal.
But the Unknown made no such movement. He gazed at Anderson,
apparently with the greatest bewilderment, then his eyes cleared,
he seemed to be about to remember who the detective was.
"You're--the--Doctor--I--saw--downstairs--aren't you?" he
said innocently. The detective set his jaw. He started off on a
new tack.
"Does this belong to you?" he said suddenly, plucking from his
pocket the battered gold watch that Beresford had found and waving
it before the Unknown's blank face.
The Unknown stared at it a moment, as a child might stare at a new
toy, with no gleam of recognition. Then--
"Maybe," he admitted. "I--don't--know." His voice trailed off.
He fell back against Bailey's arm.
Miss Cornelia gave a little shiver. The third degree in reality
was less pleasant to watch than it had been to read about in the
pages of her favorite detective stories.
"He's evidently been attacked," she said, turning to Anderson.
"He claims to have recovered consciousness in the garage, where
he was tied hand and foot!"
"He does, eh?" said the detective heavily.
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