The Stretton Street Affair Part 8

"Then you were away in Swanage during the first week of November?" I asked very seriously.

"Yes, we went down on the last day of October, and we were back here in the middle of November. My wife's sister was very ill, and her husband didn't expect her to live. So I remember the dates only too well."

"Then the family were in town on the date I mention."

He considered a moment.

"Oh! Of course they were. They must have been."

I glanced again around the room, full of amazement and wonder.

The man's failure to give me any details regarding the extremely attractive girl who had died upon his mistress's bed held me gripped in uncertainty. The mystery was even more puzzling now that I had started to investigate.

As I stood in that room a thousand strange reflections flashed across my mind.

Why had I, a mere pa.s.ser-by, been called in so suddenly to be taken into the intimacy of the millionaire's household? Was it by mere accident that I had been invited in, or was it by careful design? I had lost five thousand pounds by foolish speculation, and yet I had regained it by being party to a criminal offence.

Again, who was the pretty, dark-haired girl who had first uttered those hysterical screams, and then, while fully dressed, had died upon Mrs. De Gex's bed? Further, if the mysterious dead girl had been niece of the millionaire surely my friend the caretaker would have known her?

I confess that I now became more bewildered than ever.

That a girl named Gabrielle Engledue--whoever she might have been--had died, and that I had forged a certificate showing the cause of death were hard, solid facts. But the mystery of it all was complete.

That I had been the victim of some very carefully prepared and subtle plot was apparent, and it had become my own affair to investigate it and bring to justice those who were responsible for the poor girl's death.

Time after time I questioned the caretaker regarding the existence of the millionaire's niece, Miss Engledue, but it was plain to me that he had no knowledge of any such person.

"Was there not a death in this house--about five weeks ago?" I asked.

"Death?" he echoed. "Why, no, sir. You must be dreaming. If there had been a death while I was away, either my wife or I would certainly have heard about it." And he looked suspiciously at me as though he believed I had taken leave of my senses.

An hour later I was back at Rivermead Mansions, where Harry, for whom I had left a note, was awaiting me.

As we sat together before a cheerful fire I told him of my lapse into unconsciousness, of my loss of memory, but I did not explain all that had happened, for, as a matter of fact, I had no desire that anyone should know of my guilt in posing as a medical man and thus becoming implicated in the mysterious death of Gabrielle Engledue.

My friend sat and heard me, smoking his pipe in silence.

"Extraordinary!" he said. "You ought to go to the police, Garfield.

You were doped--without a doubt. But what was the motive? I've been very worried about you. When you had been missing a week they sent over from your office, and I then went to the police at Hammersmith.

They made every inquiry and circulated your description. But they could discover no trace of you. I'll have to report that you've been found."

"Yes, do so to-morrow morning," I urged. "I don't want the police following me about--thank you," and I laughed, rather grimly perhaps.

During the hours that I lay awake that night a thought suddenly crossed my mind--an idea which next day I promptly put into execution.

I went to Somerset House, and there searched the register of deaths.

At first my efforts were in vain, but at last I discovered what I sought, namely an entry that a young woman named Gabrielle Engledue, single, aged twenty-one, of unknown parentage, had died of heart trouble at No. 9 Stretton Street, Park Lane, on the night of November the Seventh, the body having been cremated five days later!

I pursued my inquiries in various quarters that day, and further discovered that the funeral expenses had been defrayed by some person named Moroni. There had been only two mourners, of whom Moroni had been one.

Still feeling very ill, I was compelled--after reporting to the office--to remain at home for the three days which followed.

To the two heads of the firm I fear the story that I told must have appeared somewhat lame, yet they exhibited no disbelief, but on the contrary sympathized with me in my strange and unaccountable affliction.

In a drawer in my bedroom lay the five thousand pounds in bank notes just as Oswald De Gex had given to me. I, of course, said nothing of them to Harry. But once or twice I drew them from the old envelope in which I had placed them, and turned them over in wonder.

I decided that they would be safer in the bank, but I hesitated to place them to my credit, so I at last put them away in the bottom of an old writing-case which had belonged to my father, resolving to try to forget their existence.

Though perhaps I did at last manage to forget the bribe, yet I could not put from myself the memory of that beautiful girl, the cause of whose death I had certified. The perfect countenance haunted me constantly. In my dreams I often saw her alive and well. The marvellous face was turned towards me, with merry, dancing dark eyes and a tantalizing smile--an enticing smile of mystery.

At last I resolved to go and face Oswald De Gex, so with that object I one morning left Charing Cross for Florence. Travelling by the Rome express from the Gare de Lyon, in Paris, I changed at Pisa, and at last, as the "snail train," as it is known in Italy on account of its slowness, wound slowly up the beautiful valley of the Arno, the old red roofs and domes of Firenze La Bella came into view.

The winter morning was sunny and brilliant with a clear blue sky, and as I drove through the streets, past the marble-built Duomo with its wonderful campanile, the city was agog, for it happened to be the _Festa_ of the Befana.

I had left my bag at the station, and the taxi took me to Fiesole, the high-up little town outside which lived the "rich Inglese"--Oswald De Gex.

Long before we arrived the driver pointed out the huge, mediaeval country house situated among the olives and vines, and commanding extensive views over Florence and the Arno, with the blue mountains beyond. It was a great white house with red tiles and overhanging eaves, palatial indeed in its dimensions, and for centuries the summer residence of the head of the great family of Clementini, from whom the English millionaire had bought it fifteen years before, together with all its pictures, tapestries, and antiques, with the farms adjoining.

On entering the great gates of seventeenth century wrought iron, we found ourselves in a glorious old-world Italian garden, with a wonderful marble fountain, and a good deal of antique statuary, and then driving through the extensive grounds--past a lake--I at last rang the bell.

Quickly the great iron-studded door was opened by an elderly Englishman in livery, to whom I gave my card, and asked to see his master.

The man, without hesitation, ushered me through a huge marble-built hall, with a wonderfully frescoed ceiling, into a large room hung with priceless tapestry, and furnished with old gilt chairs covered with faded green silk damask.

I, however, took very little note of my surroundings, so anxious was I to again meet my host of Stretton Street face to face.

Not long did I have to wait before the door opened, and he stood before me.

"Well, Mr. Garfield?" he asked quietly, as he advanced. "To what do I owe the honour of this visit?"

"Ah!" I cried. "Then you recollect me, I see! You know my name?"

"Yes. It was upon your card," was his quiet reply. "But, forgive me, I do not recollect ever having met you before!"

I held my breath. I tried to speak, but for the moment words failed me, so angry was I at his cleverly pretended ignorance and flat denial.

CHAPTER THE FOURTH

FACING THE MUSIC

"Do you seriously mean to say that you have no knowledge of me?" I demanded angrily, looking the millionaire straight in the face.

"Yes, sir," he replied. "I seriously mean what I say. But, tell me,"

he demanded resentfully, "why are you here to claim acquaintance with me?"