“As before.”
“As before!” I repeated, greatly surprised. “I have no knowledge of having assisted you before.”
“What?” she cried. “Is your memory so defective that you do not recollect your transactions with those who waited upon you—those who kept the previous appointments of which you have spoken?”
“I assure you, madam,” I said, quite calmly, “I have not the least idea of what you mean.”
“Mr Heaton!” she cried. “Have you really taken leave of your senses? Is it actually true what your butler has said of you—that on the day you left Denbury you behaved like a madman?”
“I am no madman!” I cried with considerable warmth. “The truth is that I remember nothing since one evening, nearly six years ago, when I was smoking with—with a friend—in Chelsea, until that day to which my servant has referred.”
“You remember nothing? That is most extraordinary.”
“If strange to you, madam, how much more strange to me? I have told you the truth, therefore kindly proceed to explain the object of these previous visits of persons you have apparently sent to me.”
“I really think that you must be joking,” she said. “It seems impossible that you should actually be unaware.”
“I tell you that I have no knowledge whatsoever of their business with me.”