“Surely you know Stretton Street?” I asked.
“No—where is it?” she inquired in that strange inert manner which characterized her mentality.
I did not pursue the question further, for it was evident that she now had no knowledge of the man in whose house I had seen her lying—apparently dead. And if she were not dead whose body was it that had been cremated? That was one of the main points of the problem which, try how I would, I failed to grasp.
Would the enigma ever be solved?
As she stood in her mother’s cosy little drawing-room Gabrielle Tennison presented a strangely tragic figure. In the grey London light she was very beautiful it was true, but upon her pale countenance was that terribly vacant look which was the index of her overwrought brain. Her memory had been swept away by some unknown horror—so the doctors had declared. And yet she seemed to remember distinctly what Doctor Moroni had alleged against me in Florence!
Therefore I questioned her further concerning the Italian, and found that she recollected quite a lot about him.
“He has been very kind to you—has he not?” I asked.
“Yes. He is an exceedingly kind friend. He took me to see several doctors in Florence and Rome. All of them said I had lost my memory,” and she smiled sweetly.
“And haven’t you lost your memory?”
“A little—perhaps—but not much.”