I started to my feet, and as I did so, my figure was reflected in a long mirror. I staggered back in dismay, for, although last night I was a sprightly and spruce young man of thirty, my hair was now turning grey, and my face so aged and wrinkled that I could scarcely recognise myself! Where was I? What could it all mean? I saw a bell, and rang it hastily. My summons was quickly answered by a sharp-featured man, who was evidently not a servant. "Tell me, who brought me here? Whose house is this?" I demanded. He gazed at me, open-mouthed, in astonishment. "I--er--You're not well, sir, I think. This is your own house." "Mine?" I cried incredulously. "Nonsense. Who are you, pray?" "I'm your secretary," he replied, adding, "I--I'll return in a moment;" and then, in evident alarm, he disappeared. I had no time to reflect upon the mystery of the situation before there entered a tall, beautiful woman, of what might be termed the Junoesque type, attired in a handsome dinner-gown. "Why, my dear, whatever have you been saying to Norton? You've quite frightened him," she exclaimed, laughing. "How is it that you're not dressed? You remember we promised to dine with the Websters to-night." "I--I confess I don't understand you, madam," I gasped, for my brain was in a whirl, and everything seemed in maddening confusion. The pain in my head was intense. "What's the matter? What has happened?" she cried in alarm. "Don't you recognise me--Lena, your wife?" "My wife?" I gasped, astounded. "No, I've never seen you before. It's some trick. Where is the box--the box that was with me in the train?" Her look of distress deepened, as she said, "Calm yourself, my dear. You are not well, and must have advice." "I want none," I replied hotly. "I desire nothing beyond the box. These are not my clothes," I said, glancing in puzzled confusion at the coat I wore. "Where are mine?" "I don't comprehend your meaning," said the handsome woman who called herself my wife. "Your mind must be wandering, Harry." "That's not my name. I am Charles Deane." "No, no, dear," she cried. "You are under some strange delusion. What can have happened to you? You are Henry Medhurst, and I am Lena Medhurst, your wife." "Where and when did you marry me, pray?" "In Cape Town, five years ago." "In Cape Town? And where are we now?" "This is your house, situate, I think, to be exact, two and a half miles from Johannesburg. Is there anything else you desire to know?" she added, with a smile, half inclined to believe that I was joking. The crowd of thoughts and feelings that burst upon my mind was indescribable. Was I still myself, or was it all a delusion? No. It was a stern reality; a deep, inexplicable mystery. "I married you five years ago, you say. Then what year of grace is this?" "Come," replied my wife, "such fooling is out of place, dear. You know as well as I that it is 1893."