He dropped into a chair, removed his light grey hat and began to dry his moist brow with a fine silk handkerchief. Stuart stared at him like a man who is stupefied. The room was still laden with strange fumes.
"Blimey!" remarked the new-comer, and his Whitechapel was as perfect as his Montmatre. He was looking at the decapitated telephone. "This is a knock-out!"
"Might I ask," said Stuart, endeavouring to collect his scattered senses, "where you came from?"
"From up a tree!" was the astonishing reply. "It was the only way to get over!"
"Up a tree!"
"Exactly. Yes, I was foolish. I am too heavy. But what could I do!
We must begin all over again."
Stuart began to doubt his sanity. This was no ordinary man.
"Might I ask," he said, "who you are and what you are doing in my house?"
"Ah!" The stranger laughed merrily. "You wonder about me—I can see it. Permit me to present myself—Gaston Max, at your service!"
"Gaston Max!" Stuart glared at the speaker incredulously. "Gaston Max! Why, I conduct a post mortem examination upon Gaston Max tomorrow, in order to learn if he was poisoned!"