Then I questioned the estimable Robertson concerning the domestic happiness of his master. I said I had heard rumours in London of matrimonial differences.
“Well, that’s a lie,” he replied quickly. “There isn’t a pair in the whole of London Society who are more devoted to each other.”
This greatly surprised me after the words that had fallen from the millionaire’s lips.
Again I referred to the mysterious Gabrielle whom I described as minutely as I was able, and apparently my description fitted that of Rose Thurston, save for the colour of her hair.
“You have no idea where she is, I suppose?”
“Not the slightest. Back in America, perhaps. She seems to come over every year.”
“I wonder if you could find out her address?” I asked. “If you could, it would be of very great service to me,” and I handed him my card, expressing a hope that he would refrain from mentioning the matter to his master.
“I’ll try,” he said. “But I fear I shan’t succeed. Mr. Henderson, the master’s secretary, would know, of course.”
The point at issue now was whether the young American girl, who had been the millionaire’s guest at the villa, and Gabrielle Engledue were actually one and the same person. If they were, then I had made one step towards the solution of the enigma.
I confess to utter bewilderment. My brain was still confused. Sometimes my skull seemed wrapped in cotton wool. From a mere unimportant person in the world of electrical engineering I had suddenly become a man upon whom rested a great and criminal responsibility!