noticed thathis stethoscope reposed cross-wise in the lining.
"My dear sir! My dear sir! What's this?" he began fussily. "Come, sitdown;" and he drew me towards a chair, and seated himself upon the edgeof another close to me.
"My head has been injured. Examine for yourself."
"Ah!" he exclaimed, first regarding me fixedly, and then rising andexamining my head. "A nasty scalp-wound, I see." He felt it carefullywith his fingers, causing me a sharp twinge of pain. "No fracture, nofracture. That's fortunate--very fortunate. It's not serious at all,I'm glad to tell you--nothing serious. How did it occur?"
"I was struck, that's all I remember," I answered, turning to him andlooking into his face.
"With something sharp-pointed, evidently;" and he looked extremelypuzzled.
"I don't know what it was."
"From what I can feel, I think you must have had a previous blow uponthe same spot at some time or another. Do you remember it?"
"Not at all," I answered. "I once received a blow on the head by thekick of a horse, but it was at the side."
"Ah, perhaps this was a blow in infancy, and you don't recollect it."
Then, as he exchanged a strange look with the young man who stood eagerand anxious at his side, his quick eyes suddenly fell upon the brokenarm of the statue.
"Why, what's this?" he cried, a sudden light apparently dawning uponhim. "Look here, there's blood and hair upon this marble finger.You've evidently struck your head against it in passing, and soviolently as to break the marble. See!"
I looked, and there, sure enough upon the outstretched index-finger ofthe marble hand was a trace of blood, to which two or three hairs stillclung.
"We've solved the mystery!" he cried. "I must dress your wound, andthen, my dear sir, you must rest--rest. It will do your head good, youknow."
"But I was struck down last night by a man named Hickman in his rooms atChelsea. He attempted to murder me."
"Yes, yes," he said, as though intentionally humouring me. "We've heardall about that. But come with me upstairs and let me dress your woundat once. Gill," he added, turning to the servant, "get me some lukewarmwater at once."
Then he took my arm and led me upstairs to a well-fitted dressing-room,where he fussily washed and bandaged my head, while I sat silent, dazed,and wondering.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.
MYSTERY INEXPLICABLE.
Britten was, I immediately detected, one of those men whose well-feignedair of fussy sympathy, whose unruffled good humour, and whose quickperception enabled him to gauge to a nicety his patient's character, andto thus ingratiate himself. By the younger people he was, no doubt,pronounced clever on account of his age and known experience, while oldladies--those whose very life depended upon regularly seeing thedoctor--declared him to be "such a dear, kind man." Upon the familydoctor's manner alone depends the extent of his popularity and the sizeof his practice. The most ignorant charlatan who ever held a diplomacan acquire a wide practice if he is only shrewd enough to humour hispatients, to take pains to feign the deepest interest in every case, andassume an outward show of superior knowledge. In medicine be the manever so clever, if he has no tact with his patients his surgery bellwill remain for ever silent.
Dr Britten was a shrewd old fellow; a bit of a bungler, who made up forall defects by that constant good humour which people like in a medicalman. "Don't worry, my dear sir; don't worry," he urged, when he hadfinished. "Rest well, and you'll be right again very soon."
"But the events of last night?" I said. "A man made a dastardlyattempt upon my life, and I intend to secure his arrest."
"Yes, yes, I know," he answered, patting me on the shoulder with afamiliarity curious when I reflected that I had never set eyes upon himtill half an hour before. "But take my advice, and don't reflect uponit."
"If you know, then perhaps you'll kindly give me some explanation?" Isaid, resenting his manner. He was treating me as he would a child.
"I only know what you've told me," he responded. "It's a strange story,certainly. But don't you think that it is, greater part of it,imagination?"
"Imagination!" I cried, starting up angrily. "I tell you, DoctorBritten--or whatever your name is--that it is no imagination. The woundon my head is sufficient proof of that."
"The wound was inflicted by yourself," he answered calmly. "Youaccidentally ran against the statue."
"I don't believe it," I said, bluntly. "It's all a confoundedconspiracy, and, moreover, you are staking your professional reputationby assisting in it."
He shrugged his shoulders and raised his grey eyebrows with anexpression of regret.
"I have been called to you, my dear sir, because you have met with anaccident," he said. "I have merely given you the best of my advice--namely, to remain quiet, and not trouble about anything that has passed.Your brain requires rest after the severe shock it has received."
"Doctor Britten," I said determinedly, "I quite understand the meaningof your vague words. You believe that I'm not quite right in my mind."
"No, no," he assured me quickly. "I did not say that. Pray do notmisunderstand me. I merely advise rest and perfect quiet. Indeed, youwould be far better in bed for a few days--far better."
"I know my own feelings best, thanks," I replied, for his manner,although it might impress nervous old ladies, aroused within me a strongresentment.
"Exactly. But surely you should, for your own sake, attend to thesuggestions of your medical adviser?"
"You have formed wrong conclusions--entirely wrong conclusions," Ilaughed. "Is it likely that I shall take notice of anything you saywhen you believe that I'm not responsible for my actions?"
I had watched his face carefully, and I knew that, like the dark-facedyoung man and Gill, the servant, he believed my brain unbalanced.
"I assure you, my dear sir, you entirely misunderstand me," heprotested. "I merely say--"
"Oh, enough!" I cried angrily, turning upon my heel and leaving theroom abruptly. I was sick of the chattering old idiot, who evidentlybelieved that I was not responsible for my actions.
Down the wide oak stairs I passed, and in the great hall, which seemedto run the whole length of the house, and was filled with stands ofarmour, tattered banners, and trophies of the chase, I encountered thepale-faced man who had sent for old Britten.
I was passing him by, intent upon exploring this strange house in whichI found myself, when, approaching me, he said--
"Would you please come into the library for one moment?"
"The library?" I asked, looking at him, puzzled. "Where is it?"
He opened a door close by, and I followed him into a comfortable study,lined with books from floor to ceiling. In the centre was a largewriting-table littered with papers, while close beside was anothersmaller table, very severe and business-like.
"Well?" I inquired. "What do you want?"
"This telegram has just arrived," he answered excitedly, unlocking adrawer in the smaller writing-table, and taking out a telegram, which hehanded to me.
Puzzled, I took the flimsy paper and read the words written thereon, asfollows:--
"We are to-day in receipt of following telegram from our Vancouverbranch--`Inform Wilford Heaton that Charles Mawson, Dawson City, hasstruck it seven dollars to pan.' Bank of British North America,London."
Such a message was utterly unintelligible to me.
"Well?" I inquired, raising my eyes and looking at him, surprised. "Idon't see why this Charles Mawson, whoever he is, need hasten to tell methat. What does it matter to me?"
"Matter? My dear sir? Matter?" he cried, staring at me, as though inwonder. "There must, I think, be something the matter with you."
"Well, perhaps you'll kindly explain what it means?" I said, "I have, Iassure you, no idea."
"Why, it means," he said, his face betraying his intense excitement--"itmeans that Woodford's report is correct, that there is, after all, richgold on the concession; in short, th
at, being owner of one of the mostvaluable placer concessions, you are a millionaire!"
"That's all very interesting," I remarked with a smile, while he stoodstaring at me in abject wonder.
"I fear," he said, "that you're not quite yourself to-day. The injuryto your head has possibly affected you."
"No, it hasn't," I snapped quickly. "I'm quite as clear-headed as youare."
"Then I should have thought that to any man in his sane senses such atelegram as that would have been extremely gratifying," he observed.
"Now, tell me," I said; "do you know who I am?"
"I think I do. You are Mr Wilford Heaton."
"And you tell me that I'm a millionaire?"
"I do, most certainly."
"Then, much as I regret to be compelled to say it, young man," Ianswered, "I am of opinion that you're a confounded liar."
"But Mawson has struck the gold seven dollars to the pan," he pointedout in protest.
"Well, what in the name of Fortune has it to do with me if he's struckit a thousand dollars to the handful?" I cried.
"I should be inclined to say it had a great deal to do with you asholder of the concession," he answered quite coolly.
"Oh, bother the concession," I said hastily. "I don't understandanything whatever about it, and, what's more, I don't want to be worriedover any mining swindles." Then I added, sinking into the padded chairbefore the writing-table. "You seem to know all about me. Tell me,now--what's your name?"
"My name?" he echoed, staring at me blankly, as though utterly puzzled."Well, I thought you knew it long ago. I'm Gedge--Reginald Gedge."
"And what are you, pray?"
"I'm your secretary."
"My secretary!" I echoed, gasping in amazement. Then I added, "Lookhere, you're trying to mislead me, all of you. I have no secretary--I've never had one. All this chatter about mines and concessions andsuch things is pure and simple rubbish."
"Very well," he answered with a slight sigh. "If you would have it soit must be. Britten has already said that you are somewhat confusedafter your accident."
"Britten be hanged!" I roared. "I'm no more confused than you are.All I want is a straightforward explanation of how I came here, in thishouse."
He smiled, pityingly I thought. That old medical idiot had apparentlyhinted to both the servant and this young prig, who declared himself mysecretary, that I was not responsible for my actions; therefore, whatcould I expect?
"The explanation is one which I regret I cannot give you," he answered."All I want is your instructions what to wire to Mawson."
"Oh, bother Mawson!" I cried angrily. "Wire him whatever you like,only don't mention his name again to me. I don't know him, and don'tdesire to make any acquaintance either with him or his confounded pans."
"I shall send him congratulations, and tell him to remain in Dawson Citypending further instructions."
"He can remain there until the Day of Judgment, for all I care," I said,a remark which brought a smile to his pale features.
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, tofind myself next day in a country house, and to be coolly informed by aman who called himself my secretary that I was owner of a great goldconcession and a millionaire. The whole thing seemed too utterlyincredible.
I felt my head, and found it bandaged. There was no mistake about thereality of it all. It was no curious chimera of the imagination.
Before me upon the blotting-pad were some sheets of blank notepaper. Iturned them over in idle curiosity, and found embossed upon them theaddress in bold, black characters: "Denbury Court, nearBudleigh-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 amazingresponse.
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 neverheard of this place before, and am certainly not its owner. Are youcertain you are not confounding me with some one else--some oneresembling me in personal appearance?"
"Absolutely certain," he replied. "Your name is Wilford Heaton, and Irepeat that I am your confidential private secretary."
I shook my head.
"Well," he said quickly, "here is some further proof," and bendingbeside me he opened one of the drawers of the big writing-table, andtook therefrom a number of blank memorandum forms, which he placedbefore me. In eagerness I read their printed heading. It was "FromWilford Heaton, 103A, Winchester House, Old Broad Street, London, E.C."
"Well, what are those used for?" I asked in wonder. "They are used atthe 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," heanswered; and taking the book from an iron safe let into the oppositewall, he opened it and placed it before me.
I glanced at the cover. Yes, there was no mistake. It was my ownpass-book.
My eyes fell upon the balance, standing to my credit, and the largenessof 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 foundtongue.
"Certainly," he replied, a moment later adding: "It is really verystrange that I have to instruct you in your own private affairs."
"Why have I an office in the City?" I asked, for that point waspuzzling.
"In order to carry on your business."
"What business?"
"That of financial agent."
I smiled at the absurdity of the idea. I had never been a thrifty man;in fact, I had never had occasion to trouble my head about finance, and,truth to tell, had always been, from a lad, a most arrant dunce atfigures.
"I fear I'm a sorry financier," I remarked for want of something betterto say.
"You are acknowledged to be one of the shrewdest and the soundest in theCity of London," Gedge answered.
"Well," I remarked, closing the pass-book, securing the flap, andhanding it back to him, "all I have to say is that this last hour thathas passed has been absolutely replete with mystery. I can make nothingof all these things you tell me--absolutely nothing. I shall begin todoubt whether I'm actually myself very soon."
"It would be better to rest a little, if I might advise," he said, in amore deferential tone than before. "Britten suggested repose. Thatblow has upset you a little. To-morrow you'll be quite right again, Ifeel sure."
"I don't intend to rest until I've cleared up this mystery," I saiddeterminedly, rising from the table.
At that moment, however, the door opened, and turning quickly, I wasconfronted by an angular, bony-faced, lantern-jawed woman, whose rougedand powdered face and juvenility of dress struck me as utterlyludicrous. She was fifty, if a day, and although her face was wrinkledand brown where the artificial complexion had worn off, she wasnevertheless attired in a manner becoming a girl of twenty.
"Oh, my dear Wilford! Whatever has happened?" she cried in alarm, in athin, unmusical voice, when she beheld the bandages around my head.
I looked at her in mingled surprise and amusement; she was so doll-likeand ridiculous in her painted juvenility.
"Mr Heaton accidentally struck his head against the statue in thedrawing-room, madam," explained Gedge. "Doctor Britten has assured methat the injury is not at all serious. A little rest is all that isnecessary."
"My dear Wilford! Oh, my dear Wilford! Why didn't you call me atonce?"
"Well, madam," I answered, "that was scarcely possible, considering thatI had not the honour of your acquaintance."
"What!" she wailed. "You--you can't really stand there and coolly tellme that you don't know me?"
"I certainly assert, madam, that I
have absolutely no knowledge whateverof whom you may be," I said with some dignity.
"Is your brain so affected, then, that you actually fail to recogniseme--Mary, your wife!"
"You!" I gasped, glaring at her, dumbfounded. "You, my wife!Impossible!"
CHAPTER NINETEEN.
MY UNKNOWN WIFE'S STORY.
"My dear Wilford!" exclaimed the thin-faced, angular woman. "I reallythink you must have taken leave of your senses."
"My dear madam," I cried excitedly, "I haven't the slightest notion ofyour name. To the best of my knowledge, I've never had the pleasure ofmeeting you before this moment. Yet you have the boldness to assertthat you are my wife! The thing is absolutely preposterous!" I laughedcynically.
"You must be mad to talk like this!" the woman answered with someasperity.
"I tell you that I'm not mad, madam," I protested, "and further, Ideclare that I have never married."
"What rubbish you talk!" she said. "This accident to your head hasevidently affected your intellect. You must rest, as Doctor Britten hasordered."
"The doddering old idiot thinks, like yourself, that I'm not quiteresponsible for my actions," I laughed. "Well, we shall see."
"If you were in your right senses you would never deny that I am yourwife," answered the overdressed woman. "The thing's too absurd."
"My dear madam," I cried, growing angry, "your allegations are utterlyridiculous, to say the least. All this is either some confoundedconspiracy, or else you mistake me for somebody else. I tell you that Iam Wilford Heaton, of Essex Street, Strand, a bachelor who has neitherthought nor inclination of marrying."
"And I tell you that you are Wilford Heaton, my husband, and owner ofthis house," she answered, her face growing redder with excitement.
The situation was certainly stranger than any other in which a man couldpossibly be placed. That it was no dream, but a stern reality, wasentirely plain. I glanced around the comfortable library, and saw thereevidences of wealth and refinement, while through the window beyond mygaze fell upon the wide park sloping away to a large lake glistening inthe sunshine, and through the trees beyond could be seen a distantglimpse of the blue waters of the English Channel.
I stood utterly nonplussed by the startling declaration of thisartificial-looking person, who aped youth so ridiculously, and yet spokewith such an air of confidence and determination.
"And you actually expect me to believe this absurd story of yours, thatI am your husband, when only last night I dined at The Boltons, and wasthen a bachelor? Besides, madam," I added with a touch of sarcasm, forI confess that my anger was now thoroughly aroused, "I think the--well,the difference in our ages is sufficient to convince any one that--"
"No, no," she hastened to interrupt me, as though that point were verydistasteful to her. "Age is entirely out of the question. Am I tounderstand that you distinctly deny having made me your wife?"
"I do, most decidedly," I laughed, for the very idea was really tooridiculous to entertain.
She exchanged a pitying look with Gedge, who stood at a little distance,watching in silence.
"Poor Wilford! poor Wilford?" she ejaculated in a tone of sympathy, and,addressing the man who called himself my secretary, said, "It seemsquite true what the doctor has declared; the blow has upset the balanceof his mind."
"Madam," I cried very determinedly, "you will oblige me by not addingfurther insult to your attempted imposture--for such sympathy isinsulting to me."
She clasped her hands, turned her eyes upwards, and sighed in the mannerof the elderly.
"You believe that I'm mad. Therefore you are trying to impose upon me!"I went on furiously. "But I tell you, my dear madam, that I am just assane as yourself, and am fully prepared to prove that I am not yourhusband."
"Ask Mr Gedge whether I speak the truth or not," she said, turning tothe secretary.
"Certainly," answered the man addressed, looking straight into my face."I have no hesitation whatever in bearing out Mrs Heaton's statement."
"It's all humbug!" I cried, turning savagely upon him. "I don't knowthis woman from Adam!"
"Well," he laughed cynically, "you ought to know her pretty well, at anyrate."
It was apparent from his tone that he had no very high opinion of her.
"I'm pleased to say that until this present moment we have beenstrangers," I said, for I was not in a humour to mince words.
"You are extremely complimentary, Wilford," she observed resentfully.
"It appears to me that compliments are entirely unnecessary in thisaffair," I said. "You are endeavouring to thrust yourself upon me as mywife, in order, I suppose, to achieve some object you have in view. ButI tell you once and for all, madam, that any such attempt will befutile. To speak plainly, I don't know you, neither have I any desireto add you to my list of acquaintances."
"Well," she cried; "of all the stories I've ever heard, this is the mostextraordinary!"
"I think, madam, I may say the same," I remarked coldly. "Your story isthe wildest and most incredible that I've ever heard. Last night, as abachelor, I dined with friends in Kensington, and left at a late hour,calling at a house in Chelsea on my way home to Essex Street. To-day Iawake to be told that I am the owner of wealth beyond the dreams ofavarice; master of this house--in Devonshire, I believe, isn't it; andyour lawful husband. Now, if you think me capable of swallowing such apack of palpable fictions as these, you must certainly consider meabsolutely insane, for none but a madman would give credence to such atissue of lies."
"Doctor Britten considers that your brain is unbalanced, because you donot know the truth," she said calmly. "I quite agree with him."
"He's a fool--a drivelling idiot," I cried, forgetting myself in theheat of the moment, and using an unwriteable word. Mention of thatpottering old fossil's name was to me as a red rag to a bull. "I surelyknow who and what I am!" I cried.
"No, my dear Wilford, that's just it. You don't know who you are," thewoman answered with a smile.
"Oh!" I exclaimed. "Then perhaps you'll kindly inform me. All thismay be very amusing to you, but I assure you that to me it's the veryreverse."
"I can only tell you who you are as I know you to be," answered thepowdered-faced, doll-like old lady, whose attempts at juvenile coquetrysickened me.
"Go on," I said, preparing myself for more attempts to befool me.
"I ask you first whether you are not Wilford Heaton, of Heaton Manor,near Tewkesbury?"
"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 ofLondon?"
"I know nothing of finance," I answered. "This Mr Gedge--or whateverhis name is--has told me some absurd fairy tale about my position inLondon, 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 inyour handwriting?"
I glanced at the letters he held. They referred to some huge financialtransaction, and were certainly in a hand that appeared wonderfully likemy own.
"Some one has been imposing upon you, I tell you. This is a case ofmistaken identity--it must be, my dear sir."
"But I tell you it isn't," protested Gedge. "All that your wife hassaid is the absolute truth."
"My wife!" I cried angrily. "I have no wife--thank Heaven!"
"No, no," whined the painted old woman, dabbing her eyes with herhandkerchief, very lightly, however, so as not to disturb theirartificiality. "No, don't say that, my dear Wilfred, don't say that!You know that you are my husband--you know you are!"
"I know, my dear madam, quite well that I do not occupy thatdistinguished position," I responded very firmly.
"But I can prove it--I can prove it!" she cried, with a futile effort attears.
"
Then I shall be most interested to see this extraordinary fictionproved," I said. "Perhaps we shall then get down to facts."
"The facts are as already stated," Gedge remarked.
"Then let me see proof. There must be a certificate or official entrysomewhere if what this lady says is really correct. Where is it?"
"My certificate was stolen when my jewel-case was rifled in the trainbetween Waterloo and Exeter," she answered. "But, of course, a copy caneasily be obtained. Your solicitor in London can get a copy at oncefrom Somerset House."
"Certificate stolen!" I cried. "A most ingenious excuse. I quiteanticipated it, although it, unfortunately, exhibits no originality.Thieves don't usually steal marriage certificates. They can't pawnthem, you know."
The woman before me glanced around the room with an air of bewilderment,and I then knew that I had cornered her.
"And where did this extraordinary marriage between us take place, pray?"I inquired, not without some bitter irony.
"At St Andrew's, Wells Street."
"Wells Street, in London?"
"Yes. You surely remember it, don't you? The church is close by OxfordCircus."
"I know the church quite well," I