“Never to my knowledge,” replied the sallow-faced man whose countenance I so well recollected.
“Then you forget a certain night not so long ago when I was called into your house in Stretton Street, and you chatted confidentially with me—about your wife and your little son?”
“My dear sir!” he cried. “Whatever do you mean? I have never seen you at Stretton Street; and I have certainly never discussed my wife with you!”
I stood aghast at his continued denial.
“But you did,” I asserted. “And there was another matter—a matter about which I must question you—the——”
“Ah! I see!” he interrupted. “You’re here to blackmail me—eh? Well—let me hear the worst,” and across his rather Oriental face there spread a mocking, half amused smile.
“I am not a blackmailer!” I protested angrily. “I want no money—only to know the truth.”
“Of what?”
“Well, the truth concerning the death of Miss Gabrielle Engledue.”