“Gaston,” he said, “I really do not understand this faculty of memory, or whatever it is. Have you any idea how you come by it?”
“Have we any idea how life comes and goes, sir?”
“I confess not. I confess not, really.”
“Well, I’m in the dark about it too; but I sometimes fancy that I’m mixed up with that other Gaston.”
“It sounds fantastic.”
“It is fantastic. Now, here is this manuscript, and here is a letter I wrote this morning. Put them together.”
Sir William did so.
“The handwriting is singularly like.”
“Well,” continued Gaston, smiling whimsically, “suppose that I am Sir Gaston Belward, Baronet, who is thought to lie in the church yonder, the title is mine, isn’t it?”
Sir William smiled also.