"Ah! I see!" he interrupted. "You're here to blackmail me--eh? Well--let me hear the worst," and across his rather Oriental face there spread a mocking, half amused smile. "I am not a blackmailer!" I protested angrily. "I want no money--only to know the truth." "Of what?" "Well, the truth concerning the death of Miss Gabrielle Engledue." "The death of Miss Gabrielle Engledue!" he cried. "I really don't understand you, Mr.--Mr. Garfield!" At mention of the name I saw that he started, but almost imperceptibly. The man was certainly a most perfect actor, and his protestations of ignorance were, indeed, well-feigned. "Then you actually deny all knowledge of the young lady!" I said. "I know no lady of that name." "But she is your niece." "I have only one niece--Lady Shalford." "And how old is she?" He hesitated for a few moments. Then he answered. "Oh! She must be about thirty-five. She married Shalford about ten years ago, and she lives at Wickenham Grange, near Malton, in Yorkshire." "And you have no other niece?" "None--I assure you. But why do you ask such a question? You puzzle me." "Not more than you puzzle me, Mr. De Gex," I replied with pique. "It would be so much easier if you would be frank and open with me." "My dear sir, you seem to me to have a bee in your bonnet about something or other. Tell me, now, what is it?" "Simply that you know me very well, but you deny it. You never thought that I should make this unwelcome reappearance." "Your appearance here as a mad-brained person is certainly unwelcome," he retorted. "You first tell me that you visited me at Stretton Street. Well, you may have been in the servants' quarters for all I know, and----" "Please do not be insulting!" I cried angrily. "I have no intention of offering you an insult, sir, but your attitude is so very extraordinary! You speak of a girl named Engledue--that was the name, I think--and allege that she is my niece. Why?" "Because the young lady is dead--she died under most suspicious circumstances. And you know all about it!" I said bluntly. "Oh! perhaps you will allege that I am a murderer next!" he laughed, as though enjoying the joke. "It is no laughing matter!" I cried in fury. "Why not? I find all your allegations most amusing," and across his dark handsome face there spread a good-humoured smile. His was a face that I could never forget. At one moment its expression was kindly and full of _bonhomie_, the next it was hard and unrelenting--the face of an eccentric criminal. "To me they are the reverse of amusing," I said. "I allege that on the night of Wednesday, November the seventh last, I was passing your house in Stretton Street, Park Lane, when your man, Horton, invited me inside, and--well, well--I need not describe what occurred there, for you recollect only too vividly--without a doubt. But what I demand to know is why you asked me in, and what happened to me after you gave me that money?"