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 out a cigarette from his gold case and slowly lit it, after which he said: "You must, I think, really excuse me. We have to go down into Florence to meet my sister-in-law, who is coming from London. I'm afraid, Mr. Garfield, that I cannot help you any further." "You mean you won't!"