"What?" asked the Inspector in frank bafflement. He had the air of a man who had been promised a treat for breakfast and then presented with a plate of snails; he vaguely saw that he was expected to be grateful, but could not understand why.

"The next step is not obvious to you? Yet you heard what I heard and saw what I saw. Very well, I will make you a free present of it, since you brought me here to ask my advice, and since you have saved me from a morning of boredom. You are looking for a house in Camberwell that has been rented within the last month to one or both of the two men with whose descriptions this lady has just favored us. It is brick, in a run-down condition, stands in its own grounds with a wall around it, and has a broken window upon the first floor in the back. That window, incidentally, proves this lady to be an American in spite of her ambiguous accent; she may be athletic, but she did not drop over thirty feet to the ground; calling the first floor the second is a pure Americanism."

"But Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade, pulling my friend aside and lowering his voice, "how can we trust her testimony? Her state of mind-" he tapped his forehead significantly. "Why, she can't even remember her own name!"

"Ah, yes, her memory," responded Holmes. "There is indeed something very unusual about her memory. Did you notice it, Watson?"

"She's lost it," said I, wondering what in heaven's name he was leading up to now.

"That, too," replied Holmes. "But just lend me that copy of the Times I see peeking from your raincoat pocket, Inspector, and I think I can favor you a remarkable demonstration."

He took the paper from Lestrade and glanced through it briefly, then folded it open. "This is nice and neutral, it will do. Madam," he turned back to the patient, "if I may trouble you one more time. Please read this little paragraph here, to yourself, that's fine. Then give the paper back to me. Good. Now tell me what you read, word for word."