When he found Bethune disinclined to enter into any conversation, he turned to me and with a slight start recognised me for the first time.
“I believe, Mr Markwick, we have the pleasure of mutual acquaintance,” I said, bowing.
He looked at me in silence for a few seconds, then, with an expression of perplexity, replied:
“You really have the advantage of me, sir. I cannot recall where we have met before.”
I was certainly not prepared for this disclaimer, but his eyes were unwavering, and there was no sign of confusion. His sinister face was a perfect blank.
“Come,” I said, rather superciliously, “you surely remember our meeting one night at Richmond, our strange journey together and its tragic result!”
“Strange journey—tragic result!” he repeated slowly, with well-feigned ignorance. “I confess I have no knowledge of what you mean.”
“Complete loss of memory is advantageous sometimes,” I remarked dryly. “But if you deny that you did not meet me one night in the Terrace Gardens at Richmond, that you did not induce me to go to a certain house to have an interview with the woman I loved, and that while in that house an event occurred which—”
“How many whiskies have you had this morning?” he asked with a laugh. His impassibility was astounding.
“I tell you if you deny these facts you lie!” I cried angrily.