“Most certainly,” he answered.
I stood stupefied, stunned by this amazing statement.
“But,” I protested, lost in wonder, “yesterday was years ago. How do you account for that? Are you certain that you’re not deceiving me?”
“I’ve told you the absolute truth,” he responded. “On that I stake my honour.”
I stood aghast, glaring at my reflection in the mirror, open-mouthed, as though I gazed upon some object supernatural. My personal appearance had certainly changed, and that in itself convinced me that there must be some truth in this man Gedge’s statement. I was older, a trifle stouter than before, I think, and my red-brown beard seemed to give my face a remarkably grotesque appearance. I had always hated beards, and considered them a relic of prehistoric barbarity. It was surprising that I should now have grown one.
“Then according to your account I must have spent yesterday here—actually in this house?”
“Why, of course you did,” he responded. “We were engaged the greater part of the day over Laffan’s affair. Walter Halliburton, the mining engineer, came down to see you, and we were together all the afternoon. He left for London at five.”
“And where did I dine?”
“Here. With Mrs Heaton.”
“Don’t speak of her as Mrs Heaton!” I cried in anger. “She’s not my wife, and I will not have her regarded as such.”