“The police! Why?” I asked.
“No,” she said, smiling, and still humouring me as though I were a child. “Don’t bother about it now. You are a little better to-day. To-morrow we will talk of it all.”
“But where am I?” I demanded, still bewildered.
“You are in St. Malo,” was her slow reply.
“St. Malo!” I echoed. “How did I get here? I have no remembrance of it.”
“Of course you have not,” replied the kindly woman in the cool-looking head-dress. “You are only just recovering.”
“From what?”
“From loss of memory, and—well, the doctors say you have suffered from a complete nervous breakdown.”
I was aghast, scarce believing myself to be in my senses, and at the same time wondering if it were not all a dream. But no! Gradually all the events of that night in Stretton Street arose before me. I saw them again in every detail—Oswald De Gex, his servant, Horton, and the dead girl, pale but very beautiful, as she lay with closed eyes upon her death-bed.