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to solve the mystery of the death of Gabrielle Engledue.”

      “Well – I will not hinder you,” he laughed grimly.

      “You mean that you will not assist me?”

      “I mean that I have no knowledge of any such person; nor have I any knowledge of you,” he said. “A perfect stranger, you come here, present your card, and at once start a series of most serious allegations against me, the chief of them being that I gave you five thousand pounds for some assistance which you refuse to describe.”

      “If I tell you, you will only deny it, Mr. De Gex,” I exclaimed bitterly. “So what is the use?”

      “None. In fact I don’t see that any object is to be gained in prolonging this interview,” was his quick retort. “If, as you say, I gave you five thousand – which I certainly never did – then what more can you want? I however, suspect that the five thousand exists only in your own imagination.”

      “But I have the sum intact – in a drawer at my home in London.”

      “It would be of interest to see it. Are they the same notes which you say I gave you?”

      “The same,” I answered, and then I went on to tell him how I had awakened to find myself in St. Malo, and how the French police had taken possession of the money found upon me.

      “Ah!” he exclaimed at last. “It all seems quite clear now. You’ve had a bad illness, my dear fellow! Your brain has become unbalanced, and you are now subject to hallucinations. I regret my hard words, Mr. Garfield,” he added in a kindly tone. “I also regret that your mental state is what it is.”

      “I desire no sympathy!” I protested, raising my voice angrily. “All I want to know is the truth.”

      “I have already told you that, as far as I am personally concerned.”

      “No. You have denied everything, and now you try to treat me as one demented!” I declared in a fury. “The existence of the bank notes you gave me are sufficient evidence against you.”

      “I think not. First, I doubt if they exist anywhere save in your imagination; secondly, if they do, then someone else may have given them to you.”

      “You did. I would recognize you among ten thousand men. On the night in question you wore a dinner jacket, and now you are in grey. That is all the difference.”

      “Well, have it your own way,” he replied smiling, though I could see that he had become palpably perturbed by my allegations. Whatever had been administered to me – some dope or other, no doubt – it had been intended that I should be cast adrift on the Continent as a semi-imbecile.

      It was that fact which maddened me. The poor girl might not have been his niece, of course, but whoever she had been, this man had had some very strange and distinct motive in getting rid of her.

      What it was I had vowed to discover.

      It was apparent that De Gex was anxious to get rid of me. Indeed, as we stood together in that fine old room, across the marble floor of which strayed long beams of sunlight, the door opened and a pretty woman came in. She was dressed to go out, and asked:

      “Will you be long, dear?”

      It was the beautiful Mrs. De Gex! In an instant I recognized her by the many photographs I had seen in the picture papers.

      “No. I’ll be with you in a minute, dear. Is the car there?” he asked.

      “It’s been there a quarter of an hour, and if we don’t go now we shall be late in meeting Hylda at the station,” she said, glancing at me with undisguised annoyance.

      Then she left, closing the door after her.

      Across my brain ran strange thoughts. I recollected his words in Stretton Street regarding his spiteful wife when I had been called in to listen to his matrimonial troubles. But husband and wife now appeared to be on quite amicable and even affectionate terms.

      I confess that I was still bewildered, as you, my reader, in whom I am here reposing confidence, would, I believe, have been, had you found yourself in similar circumstances.

      “I see that your wife is eager to go out,” I said. “But I fear I must, before I go, press for a direct answer to my questions, Mr. De Gex.”

      “My dear sir, I have answered them. What more can I say?” he exclaimed with affected dismay.

      “A very great deal. You can tell me the truth.”

      “I have,” he snapped. “Who this girl Engledue is I have not a ghost of an idea. Are you certain she is dead?”

      “Positive. I saw her lying dead in the room which adjoins your library.”

      “What! My wife’s room!” he cried. “Oh, come – let us finish all this silly talk.”

      “When you are, at least, frank with me!”

      “I am.”

      “But do you deny that the young lady, Gabrielle Engledue, died there? Do you not recollect that we both stood at her death-bed?”

      “Don’t talk such piffle!” De Gex snapped, no doubt believing in the end that he would convince me of his ignorance of the whole tragedy.

      Whatever had happened on that November night was, no doubt, to the distinct advantage of the wealthy man who stood before me. Yet I was faced with a difficulty. He had uttered that most ugly word “blackmail.” Suppose he called the police and accused me of it! His word – the word of a wealthy financier – would, no doubt, be taken by a jury before my own!

      On the other hand, I had up my sleeve a trump-card – the death and cremation of the mysterious Gabrielle Engledue. Probably the poor victim was poisoned – hence the object of her cremation to remove all traces of it! Yet, opposed to that, there still remained my own most serious offence of posing as a medical man and giving a forged certificate concerning the cause of death.

      Yes. I was only too keenly alive to my own very precarious position. Yet I was emboldened by De Gex’s agitation, and the pallor in his sallow cheeks.

      He was, no doubt, feeling very uneasy. And even a millionaire can feel uneasy when faced with a witness of his own offence.

      “Mr. De Gex, I am not talking rubbish,” I said in all seriousness. “You appear to forget that night when your wife deserted your son in Westbourne Grove, and then laughed at you over the telephone from a public call-office.”

      He looked at me very straight with those deep-set eyes of his.

      “Really,” he exclaimed. “That is quite a new feature in the affair. Let me see, what did I tell you?”

      “Your man, Horton, invited me, a mere passer-by, into your house in Stretton Street. He said you were very much worried and asked if I would meet you. Why? I cannot imagine. When we met you were very vague in your statements, and at first I could not for the life of me discover why I had been asked to meet you. But soon you confided to me the fact that your wife, being spiteful towards you, had abandoned your heir, little Oswald, in Westbourne Grove, and had then rung up from a call-office telling you to find him.”

      “Bosh! My dear fellow! Bosh!” was his reply. “First, you were never there; and secondly, I’ve never complained of my wife’s behaviour to anyone; certainly not to a stranger.”

      “You did to me. I certainly am not dreaming.”

      “But you have already admitted that you’ve been in hospital in St. Malo suffering from loss of memory.”

      “My memory has now fortunately been restored,” I replied.

      “Distorted – without a doubt. You would never travel all the way from London to relate these absolutely silly stories to me if you were in your right senses, my dear Mr. Garfield,” he said.

      “They’re not silly stories, but hard, indisputable facts!” I declared resentfully.

      The millionaire had assumed an air of nonchalance, for leaning against a big old buhl table he took

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