“Now, tell me,” I said; “do you know who I am?”
“I think I do. You are Mr Wilford Heaton.”
“And you tell me that I’m a millionaire?”
“I do, most certainly.”
“Then, much as I regret to be compelled to say it, young man,” I answered, “I am of opinion that you’re a confounded liar.”
“But Mawson has struck the gold seven dollars to the pan,” he pointed out in protest.
“Well, what in the name of Fortune has it to do with me if he’s struck it a thousand dollars to the handful?” I cried.
“I should be inclined to say it had a great deal to do with you as holder of the concession,” he answered quite coolly.
“Oh, bother the concession,” I said hastily. “I don’t understand anything whatever about it, and, what’s more, I don’t want to be worried over any mining swindles.” Then I added, sinking into the padded chair before the writing-table. “You seem to know all about me. Tell me, now—what’s your name?”
“My name?” he echoed, staring at me blankly, as though utterly puzzled. “Well, I thought you knew it long ago. I’m Gedge—Reginald Gedge.”