“Certainly.”
“And you were once stricken by blindness?”
“That is so, unfortunately.”
“And you are now carrying on business as a financier in the City of London?”
“I know nothing of finance,” I answered. “This Mr Gedge—or whatever his name is—has told me some absurd fairy tale about my position in London, but knowing myself, as I do, to be an arrant duffer at figures, I’m quite positive that the story is all bunkum.”
“Then how do you account for these memorandum forms?” inquired Gedge, taking some from the table, “and for these letters? Are they not in your handwriting?”
I glanced at the letters he held. They referred to some huge financial transaction, and were certainly in a hand that appeared wonderfully like my own.
“Some one has been imposing upon you, I tell you. This is a case of mistaken identity—it must be, my dear sir.”
“But I tell you it isn’t,” protested Gedge. “All that your wife has said is the absolute truth.”
“My wife!” I cried angrily. “I have no wife—thank Heaven!”