"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 this house." He smiled, pityingly I thought. That old medical idiot had apparently hinted to both the servant and this young prig, who declared himself my secretary, that I was not responsible for my actions; therefore, what could 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't desire to make any acquaintance either with him or his confounded pans." "I shall send him congratulations, and tell him to remain in Dawson City pending 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, to find myself next day in a country house, and to be coolly informed by a man who called himself my secretary that I was owner of a great gold concession and a millionaire. The whole thing seemed too utterly incredible. I felt my head, and found it bandaged. There was no mistake about the reality of it all. It was no curious chimera of the imagination. Before me upon the blotting-pad were some sheets of blank notepaper. I turned them over in idle curiosity, and found embossed upon them the address in bold, black characters: "Denbury Court, near Budleigh-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 amazing response. 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 never heard of this place before, and am certainly not its owner. Are you certain you are not confounding me with some one else--some one resembling me in personal appearance?" "Absolutely certain," he replied. "Your name is Wilford Heaton, and I repeat that I am your confidential private secretary." I shook my head. "Well," he said quickly, "here is some further proof," and bending beside me he opened one of the drawers of the big writing-table, and took therefrom a number of blank memorandum forms, which he placed before me. In eagerness I read their printed heading. It was "From Wilford Heaton, 103A, Winchester House, Old Broad Street, London, E.C." "Well, what are those used for?" I asked in wonder. "They are used at the City office," he answered, tossing them back into the drawer. "And you tell me I am wealthy?" I said, with a cynical laugh.