Am I
right?"
"That's it, sir. You're a ph'los'pher," murmured Mr. BUMSTEAD, trying to
brush from above his nose the pendent lock of hair, which he took for a
fly.
"Very well, then," continued TRACEY CLEWS, his extraordinary head of
hair fairly bristling with electrical animation: "You've only to get
yourself into _exactly the same_ clove-y condition as on the night of
the double disappearance, when you put your umbrella and nephew away
somewhere, and you'll remember all about it again. You have two distinct
states of existence, you see: a cloven one, and an uncloven one; and
what you have done in one you are totally oblivious of in the other."
Something like an occult wink trembled for a moment in the right eye of
Mr. BUMSTEAD.
"Tha's ver' true," said he, thoughtfully. "I've been 'blivious m'self,
frequently. Never c'd r'member wharIowed."
"The idea I've suggested to you for the solution of this mystery," went
on Mr. CLEWS, "Is expressed by one of the greatest of English writers;
who, in his very last work, says; '--in some cases of drunkenness, and
in others of animal magnetism, there are two states of consciousness
which never clash, but each of which pursues its separate course as
though it were continuous instead of broken. Thus, if I hide my watch
when I am drunk, I must be drunk again before I can remember where.'[2]"
"I'm norradrink'n'man, sir," returned Mr. BUMSTEAD, drawing coldly back
from him, and escaping a fall into the fireplace by a dexterous surge
into the nearest chair.
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