A brief silence fell between us. All this was absolutely bewildering. I had been struck down on the previous night in a street at Chelsea, to find myself next day in a country house, and to be coolly informed by a man who called himself my secretary that I was owner of a great gold concession and a millionaire. The whole thing seemed too utterly incredible.
I felt my head, and found it bandaged. There was no mistake about the reality of it all. It was no curious chimera of the imagination.
Before me upon the blotting-pad were some sheets of blank notepaper. I turned them over in idle curiosity, and found embossed upon them the address in bold, black characters: “Denbury Court, near Budleigh-Salterton.”
“Is this place Denbury Court?” I inquired.
“Yes.”
“And whose guest am I, pray?”
“You are no one’s guest. This is your own house,” was his amazing response.
I turned towards him determinedly, and in a hard voice said—
“I think, Mr Gedge, that you’ve taken leave of your senses. I’ve never heard of this place before, and am certainly not its owner. Are you certain you are not confounding me with some one else—some one resembling me in personal appearance?”
“Absolutely certain,” he replied. “Your name is Wilford Heaton, and I repeat that I am your confidential private secretary.”