Kenelm Jerton entered the dining-hall of the Golden Galleon Hotel in the
full crush of the luncheon hour. Nearly every seat was occupied, and
small additional tables had been brought in, where floor space permitted,
to accommodate latecomers, with the result that many of the tables were
almost touching each other. Jerton was beckoned by a waiter to the only
vacant table that was discernible, and took his seat with the
uncomfortable and wholly groundless idea that nearly every one in the
room was staring at him. He was a youngish man of ordinary appearance,
quiet of dress and unobtrusive of manner, and he could never wholly rid
himself of the idea that a fierce light of public scrutiny beat on him as
though he had been a notability or a super-nut. After he had ordered his
lunch there came the unavoidable interval of waiting, with nothing to do
but to stare at the flower-vase on his table and to be stared at (in
imagination) by several flappers, some maturer beings of the same sex,
and a satirical-looking Jew. In order to carry off the situation with
some appearance of unconcern he became spuriously interested in the
contents of the flower-vase.
“What is the name of these roses, d’you know?” he asked the waiter. The
waiter was ready at all times to conceal his ignorance concerning items
of the wine-list or menu; he was frankly ignorant as to the specific name
of the roses.
“_Amy Sylvester Partington_,” said a voice at Jerton’s elbow.
The voice came from a pleasant-faced, well-dressed young woman who was
sitting at a table that almost touched Jerton’s. He thanked her
hurriedly and nervously for the information, and made some inconsequent
remark about the flowers.
“It is a curious thing,” said the young woman, that, “I should be able to
tell you the name of those roses without an effort of memory, because if
you were to ask me my name I should be utterly unable to give it to you.”
Jerton had not harboured the least intention of extending his thirst for
name-labels to his neighbour. After her rather remarkable announcement,
however, he was obliged to say something in the way of polite inquiry.
“Yes,” answered the lady, “I suppose it is a case of partial loss of
memory. I was in the train coming down here; my ticket told me that I
had come from Victoria and was bound for this place. I had a couple of
five-pound notes and a sovereign on me, no visiting cards or any other
means of identification, and no idea as to who I am. I can only hazily
recollect that I have a title; I am Lady Somebody—beyond that my mind is
a blank.”
“Hadn’t you any luggage with you?” asked Jerton.
“That is what I didn’t know. I knew the name of this hotel and made up
my mind to come here, and when the hotel porter who meets the trains
asked if I had any luggage I had to invent a dressing-bag and
dress-basket; I could always pretend that they had gone astray. I gave
him the name of Smith, and presently he emerged from a confused pile of
luggage and passengers with a dressing-bag and dress-basket labelled
Kestrel-Smith. I had to take them; I don’t see what else I could have
done.”
Jerton said nothing, but he rather wondered what the lawful owner of the
baggage would do.
“Of course it was dreadful arriving at a strange hotel with the name of
Kestrel-Smith, but it would have been worse to have arrived without
luggage. Anyhow, I hate causing trouble.”
Jerton had visions of harassed railway officials and distraught
Kestrel-Smiths, but he made no attempt to clothe his mental picture in
words. The lady continued her story.
“Naturally, none of my keys would fit the things, but I told an
intelligent page boy that I had lost my key-ring, and he had the locks
forced in a twinkling. Rather too intelligent, that boy; he will
probably end in Dartmoor. The Kestrel-Smith toilet tools aren’t up to
much, but they are better than nothing.”
“If you feel sure that you have a title,” said Jerton, “why not get hold
of a peerage and go right through it?”
“I tried that. I skimmed through the list of the House of Lords in
‘Whitaker,’ but a mere printed string of names conveys awfully little to
one, you know. If you were an army officer and had lost your identity
you might pore over the Army List for months without finding out who your
were. I’m going on another tack; I’m trying to find out by various
little tests who I am _not_—that will narrow the range of uncertainty
down a bit. You may have noticed, for instance, that I’m lunching
principally off lobster Newburg.”
Jerton had not ventured to notice anything of the sort.
“It’s an extravagance, because it’s one of the most expensive dishes on
the menu, but at any rate it proves that I’m not Lady Starping; she never
touches shell-fish, and poor Lady Braddleshrub has no digestion at all;
if I am _her_ I shall certainly die in agony in the course of the
afternoon, and the duty of finding out who I am will devolve on the press
and the police and those sort of people; I shall be past caring. Lady
Knewford doesn’t know one rose from another and she hates men, so she
wouldn’t have spoken to you in any case; and Lady Mousehilton flirts with
every man she meets—I haven’t flirted with you, have I?”
Jerton hastily gave the required assurance.
“Well, you see,” continued the lady, “that knocks four off the list at
once.”
“It’ll be rather a lengthy process bringing the list down to one,” said
Jerton.
“Oh, but, of course, there are heaps of them that I couldn’t possibly
be—women who’ve got grandchildren or sons old enough to have celebrated
their coming of age. I’ve only got to consider the ones about my own
age. I tell you how you might help me this afternoon, if you don’t mind;
go through any of the back numbers of _Country Life_ and those sort of
papers that you can find in the smoking-room, and see if you come across
my portrait with infant son or anything of that sort. It won’t take you
ten minutes. I’ll meet you in the lounge about tea-time. Thanks
awfully.”
And the Fair Unknown, having graciously pressed Jerton into the search
for her lost identity, rose and left the room. As she passed the young
man’s table she halted for a moment and whispered:
“Did you notice that I tipped the waiter a shilling? We can cross Lady
Ulwight off the list; she would have died rather than do that.”
At five o’clock Jerton made his way to the hotel lounge; he had spent a
diligent but fruitless quarter of an hour among the illustrated weeklies
in the smoking-room. His new acquaintance was seated at a small
tea-table, with a waiter hovering in attendance.
“China tea or Indian?” she asked as Jerton came up.
“China, please, and nothing to eat. Have you discovered anything?”
“Only negative information. I’m not Lady Befnal. She disapproves
dreadfully of any form of gambling, so when I recognised a well-known
book maker in the hotel lobby I went and put a tenner on an unnamed filly
by William the Third out of Mitrovitza for the three-fifteen race. I
suppose the fact of the animal being nameless was what attracted me.”
“Did it win?” asked Jerton.
“No, came in fourth, the most irritating thing a horse can do when you’ve
backed it win or place. Anyhow, I know now that I’m not Lady Befnal.”
“It seems to me that the knowledge was rather dearly bought,” commented
Jerton.
“Well, yes, it has rather cleared me out,” admitted the identity-seeker;
“a florin is about all I’ve got left on me. The lobster Newburg made my
lunch rather an expensive one, and, of course, I had to tip that boy for
what he did to the Kestrel-Smith locks. I’ve got rather a useful idea,
though. I feel certain that I belong to the Pivot Club; I’ll go back to
town and ask the hall porter there if there are any letters for me. He
knows all the members by sight, and if there are any letters or telephone
messages waiting for me of course that will solve the problem. If he
says there aren’t any I shall say: ‘You know who I am, don’t you?’ so
I’ll find out anyway.”
The plan seemed a sound one; a difficulty in its execution suggested
itself to Jerton.
“Of course,” said the lady, when he hinted at the obstacle, “there’s my
fare back to town, and my bill here and cabs and things. If you’ll lend
me three pounds that ought to see me through comfortably. Thanks ever
so. Then there is the question of that luggage: I don’t want to be
saddled with that for the rest of my life. I’ll have it brought down to
the hall and you can pretend to mount guard over it while I’m writing a
letter. Then I shall just slip away to the station, and you can wander
off to the smoking-room, and they can do what they like with the things.
They’ll advertise them after a bit and the owner can claim them.”
Jerton acquiesced in the manœuvre, and duly mounted guard over the
luggage while its temporary owner slipped unobtrusively out of the hotel.
Her departure was not, however, altogether unnoticed. Two gentlemen were
strolling past Jerton, and one of them remarked to the other:
“Did you see that tall young woman in grey who went out just now? She is
the Lady—”
His promenade carried him out of earshot at the critical moment when he
was about to disclose the elusive identity. The Lady Who? Jerton could
scarcely run after a total stranger, break into his conversation, and ask
him for information concerning a chance passer-by. Besides, it was
desirable that he should keep up the appearance of looking after the
luggage. In a minute or two, however, the important personage, the man
who knew, came strolling back alone. Jerton summoned up all his courage
and waylaid him.
“I think I heard you say you knew the lady who went out of the hotel a
few minutes ago, a tall lady, dressed in grey. Excuse me for asking if
you could tell me her name; I’ve been talking to her for half an hour;
she—er—she knows all my people and seems to know me, so I suppose I’ve
met her somewhere before, but I’m blest if I can put a name to her.
Could you—?”
“Certainly. She’s a Mrs. Stroope.”
“_Mrs._?” queried Jerton.
“Yes, she’s the Lady Champion at golf in my part of the world. An awful
good sort, and goes about a good deal in Society, but she has an awkward
habit of losing her memory every now and then, and gets into all sorts of
fixes. She’s furious, too, if you make any allusion to it afterwards.
Good day, sir.”
The stranger passed on his way, and before Jerton had had time to
assimilate his information he found his whole attention centred on an
angry-looking lady who was making loud and fretful-seeming inquiries of
the hotel clerks.
“Has any luggage been brought here from the station by mistake, a
dress-basket and dressing-case, with the name Kestrel-Smith? It can’t be
traced anywhere. I saw it put in at Victoria, that I’ll swear.
Why—there is my luggage! and the locks have been tampered with!”
Jerton heard no more. He fled down to the Turkish bath, and stayed there
for hours.