"But every day they grow clearer, do they not?"
"Yes, I think so. Have I been ill?"
"Yes, my dear fellow," said his uncle, gently laying his hand on his
arm, "you have been very ill, and your recovery depends entirely upon
your keeping your mind calm and restful. Do not attempt to remember
anything that does not come clearly into your mind; in fact, live in
the present as much as you can, and the past will come back to you
gradually."
At this moment Dr. Belton appeared on the verandah, having just
returned from a visit to one of the Sydney hospitals. After greeting
his friends, he sat down on a rustic chair, and with a stretch and a
yawn brought out from his coat pocket a leather pocket-book which he
flung across to Cardo.
"There, Cardo, is that yours?"
"Yes," he answered, carelessly taking the pocketbook and placing it in
his pocket.
"Come, you have disposed of it quickly; look at it again."
Cardo drew it out once more, and, looking at it more carefully, said: "I do not remember where I dropped it; but I do remember being in a
hot, scorching atmosphere, and feeling a terrific blow on my head, and
then--nothing more but cloud and darkness, until I awoke here to light
and memory, though that sometimes fails me, for I cannot remember
exactly what happened before that day of burning heat."
"Well! the blow on your head and the loss of your pocket-book I can
explain, for to-day in the Eastlake Hospital, I was with a dying man,
who confessed that about a year and a half ago he was standing idly on
the docks, when he saw a gentleman suddenly struck on the back of his
head by the swinging arm of a huge crane, used for lifting heavy
weights to and from the shipping. The young man fell forward, his
pocket-book--that one I have just given you--fell out of his pocket,
and was pounced upon by the man who died to-day. That was you, Cardo
Wynne; you were struck down insensible by the iron bar, and while you
were quickly surrounded by a crowd and carried to the hospital, the man
escaped with your pocket-book. He returned it to me with great
penitence, having spent all your money, I am afraid; but your papers, I
think, are intact, and I see you have in it a letter of credit upon the
Bank of Australasia."
"Why, yes," said Cardo, "I remember coming to the harbour in a ship.
What was it called? The Burrawalla!" and as he fingered the papers
in the pocket-book, and came upon his father's signature, Meurig Wynne,
he became much excited, and hunted eagerly until he found a folded
paper, out of which he drew a long curl of golden hair.