It was a hot dry night when London lay beneath its haze of sun-reddened dust after a heat spell, parched and choked.
Gabrielle was out at the house of one of her school friends, hence, we sat alone together in the cool drawing-room—a room which was essentially that of a woman of taste and refinement.
A few seconds after I had entered, a tall, grey-haired man came in, whereupon Mrs. Tennison introduced him as her brother Charles from Liverpool.
The man glanced at me sharply, and then, smiling pleasantly, took my hand.
“I have come up to see my sister regarding poor Gabrielle,” he said, when we were seated. “I understand that you have experienced similar symptoms to hers, and have recovered.”
“I have not completely recovered,” I replied. “Often I have little recurrences of lapse of memory for periods from a few moments to a quarter of an hour.”
“My sister has told me that you believe that poor Gabrielle and yourself are fellow-victims of some plot.”
“I am certain of it, Mr. Maxwell,” I replied. “And I have already devoted considerable time and more money than I could really afford in an attempt to solve the mystery of it all.”
“Can you explain the whole circumstances?” he asked. “I am deeply interested in my unfortunate niece.”
“I can relate to you a few of the facts if you wish to hear them,” was my reply. I certainly had no intention of telling him all that I knew, or of the death and cremation of the mysterious Gabrielle Engledue—whoever she might have been.