Britten was, I immediately detected, one of those men whose well-feigned
air of fussy sympathy, whose unruffled good humour, and whose quick
perception enabled him to gauge to a nicety his patient's character, and
to thus ingratiate himself. By the younger people he was, no doubt,
pronounced clever on account of his age and known experience, while old
ladies--those whose very life depended upon regularly seeing the
doctor--declared him to be "such a dear, kind man." Upon the family
doctor's manner alone depends the extent of his popularity and the size
of his practice. The most ignorant charlatan who ever held a diploma
can acquire a wide practice if he is only shrewd enough to humour his
patients, to take pains to feign the deepest interest in every case, and
assume an outward show of superior knowledge. In medicine be the man
ever so clever, if he has no tact with his patients his surgery bell
will remain for ever silent.
Dr Britten was a shrewd old fellow; a bit of a bungler, who made up for
all defects by that constant good humour which people like in a medical
man. "Don't worry, my dear sir; don't worry," he urged, when he had
finished. "Rest well, and you'll be right again very soon."
"But the events of last night?" I said. "A man made a dastardly
attempt upon my life, and I intend to secure his arrest."
"Yes, yes, I know," he answered, patting me on the shoulder with a
familiarity curious when I reflected that I had never set eyes upon him
till half an hour before. "But take my advice, and don't reflect upon
it."
"If you know, then perhaps you'll kindly give me some explanation?" I
said, 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, Doctor
Britten--or whatever your name is--that it is no imagination. The wound
on my head is sufficient proof of that."
"The wound was inflicted by yourself," he answered calmly. "You
accidentally ran against the statue."
"I don't believe it," I said, bluntly. "It's all a confounded
conspiracy, and, moreover, you are staking your professional reputation
by assisting in it."
He shrugged his shoulders and raised his grey eyebrows with an
expression of regret.
"I have been called to you, my dear sir, because you have met with an
accident," 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 meaning
of 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 not
misunderstand me. I merely advise rest and perfect quiet. Indeed, you
would 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 strong
resentment.
"Exactly. But surely you should, for your own sake, attend to the
suggestions of your medical adviser?"
"You have formed wrong conclusions--entirely wrong conclusions," I
laughed. "Is it likely that I shall take notice of anything you say
when you believe that I'm not responsible for my actions?"
I had watched his face carefully, and I knew that, like the dark-faced
young man and Gill, the servant, he believed my brain unbalanced.
"I assure you, my dear sir, you entirely misunderstand me," he
protested. "I merely say--"
"Oh, enough!" I cried angrily, turning upon my heel and leaving the
room abruptly. I was sick of the chattering old idiot, who evidently
believed that I was not responsible for my actions.
Down the wide oak stairs I passed, and in the great hall, which seemed
to run the whole length of the house, and was filled with stands of
armour, tattered banners, and trophies of the chase, I encountered the
pale-faced man who had sent for old Britten.
I was passing him by, intent upon exploring this strange house in which
I 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 large
writing-table littered with papers, while close beside was another
smaller table, very severe and business-like.
"Well?" I inquired. "What do you want?"
"This telegram has just arrived," he answered excitedly, unlocking a
drawer in the smaller writing-table, and taking out a telegram, which he
handed to me.
Puzzled, I took the flimsy paper and read the words written thereon, as
follows:--
"We are to-day in receipt of following telegram from our Vancouver
branch--`Inform Wilford Heaton that Charles Mawson, Dawson City, has
struck 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. "I
don't see why this Charles Mawson, whoever he is, need hasten to tell me
that. What does it matter to me?"
"Matter? My dear sir? Matter?" he cried, staring at me, as though in
wonder. "There must, I think, be something the matter with you."
"Well, perhaps you'll kindly explain what it means?" I said, "I have, I
assure you, no idea."
"Why, it means," he said, his face betraying his intense excitement--"it
means that Woodford's report is correct, that there is, after all, rich
gold on the concession; in short, that, being owner of one of the most
valuable placer concessions, you are a millionaire!"
"That's all very interesting," I remarked with a smile, while he stood
staring at me in abject wonder.
"I fear," he said, "that you're not quite yourself to-day. The injury
to your head has possibly affected you."
"No, it hasn't," I snapped quickly. "I'm quite as clear-headed as you
are."
"Then I should have thought that to any man in his sane senses such a
telegram 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," I
answered, "I am of opinion that you're a confounded liar."
"But Mawson has struck the gold seven dollars to the pan," he pointed
out in protest.
"Well, what in the name of Fortune has it to do with me if he's struck
it a thousand dollars to the handful?" I cried.
"I should be inclined to say it had a great deal to do with you as
holder of the concession," he answered quite coolly.
"Oh, bother the concession," I said hastily. "I don't understand
anything whatever about it, and, what's more, I don't want to be worried
over any mining swindles." Then I added, sinking into the padded chair
before 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, "Look
here, 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 and
such things is pure and simple rubbish."
"Very well," he answered with a slight sigh. "If you would have it so
it must be. Britten has already said that you are somewhat confused
after 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 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.