“And what are you, pray?”
“I’m your secretary.”
“My secretary!” I echoed, gasping in amazement. Then I added, “Look here, you’re trying to mislead me, all of you. I have no secretary—I’ve never had one. All this chatter about mines and concessions and such things is pure and simple rubbish.”
“Very well,” he answered with a slight sigh. “If you would have it so it must be. Britten has already said that you are somewhat confused after your accident.”
“Britten be hanged!” I roared. “I’m no more confused than you are. All I want is a straightforward explanation of how I came here, in this house.”
He smiled, pityingly I thought. That old medical idiot had apparently hinted to both the servant and this young prig, who declared himself my secretary, that I was not responsible for my actions; therefore, what could I expect?
“The explanation is one which I regret I cannot give you,” he answered. “All I want is your instructions what to wire to Mawson.”
“Oh, bother Mawson!” I cried angrily. “Wire him whatever you like, only don’t mention his name again to me. I don’t know him, and don’t desire to make any acquaintance either with him or his confounded pans.”
“I shall send him congratulations, and tell him to remain in Dawson City pending further instructions.”
“He can remain there until the Day of Judgment, for all I care,” I said, a remark which brought a smile to his pale features.