Her look of distress deepened, as she said, “Calm yourself, my dear. You are not well, and must have advice.”
“I want none,” I replied hotly. “I desire nothing beyond the box. These are not my clothes,” I said, glancing in puzzled confusion at the coat I wore. “Where are mine?”
“I don’t comprehend your meaning,” said the handsome woman who called herself my wife. “Your mind must be wandering, Harry.”
“That’s not my name. I am Charles Deane.”
“No, no, dear,” she cried. “You are under some strange delusion. What can have happened to you? You are Henry Medhurst, and I am Lena Medhurst, your wife.”
“Where and when did you marry me, pray?”
“In Cape Town, five years ago.”
“In Cape Town? And where are we now?”
“This is your house, situate, I think, to be exact, two and a half miles from Johannesburg. Is there anything else you desire to know?” she added, with a smile, half inclined to believe that I was joking.
The crowd of thoughts and feelings that burst upon my mind was indescribable. Was I still myself, or was it all a delusion?