“And of the week?”
“Thursday.”
“Thanks. I hadn’t the slightest idea.”
Frothingham fancied the man had gone mad.
“The whole thing is most extraordinary,” Grey went on, and then he proceeded to relate his afternoon’s experience, while his listener preserved an interested but incredulous silence.
“Can’t remember a blessed thing,” the narrator concluded, “since that morning last winter—I suppose it was last winter. What year is this?”
He was told.
“Yes, it was last winter, then—January, if I’m not mistaken.”
Frothingham looked thoughtful and counted back. He wondered whether it was insanity or drugs, or—cunning.
“You must have heard something of it,” Grey went on, eagerly. “Did the newspapers say I was dead?”