activities of those intimately connected with him. Where he had been,
what he had done, all the events of his life up to the night of his
arrest remained, for all his effort to remember them, absolutely in
darkness.

"You don't remember this man?" Forest asked him quietly, indicating
Ezra Melville.

Again Ben's eyes studied the droll, gray face. "With the vaguest kind of
memory. I know I've seen him before--often. I can't tell anything else."

"He's a good friend of your family. He knew your folks. I should say he
was a _very_ good friend, to take the trouble and time he has, in your
behalf."

Ben nodded. He did not have to be told that fact. The explanation,
however, was beyond him.

Forest leaned forward. "You remember the Saskatchewan River?"

Ben straightened, but the dim images in his mind were not clear enough
for him to answer in the affirmative. "I'm afraid not."

Melville leaned forward in his chair. "Ask him if he remembers winning
the canoe race at Lodge Pole--or the time he shot the Athabaska Rapids."

Ben turned brightly to him, but slowly shook his head. "I can't remember
ever hearing of them before."

"I think you would, in time," Forest remarked. "They must have been