I shook my head.
“Well,” he said quickly, “here is some further proof,” and bending beside me he opened one of the drawers of the big writing-table, and took therefrom a number of blank memorandum forms, which he placed before me. In eagerness I read their printed heading. It was “From Wilford Heaton, 103A, Winchester House, Old Broad Street, London, E.C.”
“Well, what are those used for?” I asked in wonder. “They are used at the City office,” he answered, tossing them back into the drawer.
“And you tell me I am wealthy?” I said, with a cynical laugh.
“Your banker’s pass-book should be sufficient proof of that,” he answered; and taking the book from an iron safe let into the opposite wall, he opened it and placed it before me.
I glanced at the cover. Yes, there was no mistake. It was my own pass-book.
My eyes fell upon the balance, standing to my credit, and the largeness of the figures held me open-eyed in astonishment.
It was wealth beyond all my wildest dreams.
“And that is mine—absolutely mine?” I inquired, when at last I found tongue.
“Certainly,” he replied, a moment later adding: “It is really very strange that I have to instruct you in your own private affairs.”