laughed as we ascended the soft carpeted stairs. I recollected the pattern.
A few moments later we were in the library. Yes. It was just as I remembered it. Nothing had been altered. There was the writing-table whereon I had copied out the death certificate; the big fireplace, now empty, and the deep chair in which I had sat.
There was the window, too—the window which I had opened in order to gasp for air after that suffocating odour of pot-pourri.
As I stood there—the watchful caretaker with his eye upon me, wondering no doubt—I again took in every detail. My return held me more than ever puzzled.
“What is the room beyond?” I asked.
“Oh! That’s the mistress’s bedroom,” he replied. “A curious fancy to have her room next to the library. But it’s one of the best rooms in the house. The master hates London. He lives all the time in Italy, and is only over here just for a week or two in spring, and a week or so before Christmas.”
“I’d like to see that room,” I said, affecting ignorance.
He took me in.
In a second I saw that nothing had been changed since I had stood there at the death-bed of Gabrielle Engledue a little over a month ago.
There was the handsome bed-chamber with its inlaid cupboards, its great dressing-table, and its fine bed—the bed upon which the beautiful young woman had been lying dead. But now the bed had been re-made and its quilted coverlet of pale pink silk was undisturbed.
The corpse had been removed and buried upon my certificate!
I sniffed to see whether I could detect that curious odour of pot-pourri, but in vain. The air seemed fresh and not stifling as it had been on that well-remembered night.
Upon a side table stood a large photograph in a silver frame. I bent to look at it, whereupon the caretaker said:
“That’s a good photograph of Mr. De Gex, isn’t it, sir?”
“Excellent,” I said, for it was a really fine portrait. “Does your mistress come over from Italy often?”
“Oh, yes, and she brings the little boy over with her. She is frequently here, while her husband stays at Fiesole. I send on his correspondence every day to Mr. Henderson, his secretary.”
I stood gazing around the room. Upon that bed the beautiful girl lay dead, and I had certified the cause of her death! Yet I had, later on, been the victim of some devil’s trick of which I knew nothing.
I was there to investigate. Yet though I questioned the caretaker very closely, I confess that I met with little success. He was an old and trusted servant of the family. Hence to many of my inquiries he remained dumb.
“When do you expect your master back?” I asked at last.
“Oh, not for another six months or so.”
“Where is Mrs. De Gex?”
“Ah! That I can’t quite make out,” he replied. “It’s a bit of a mystery. One night she went away quite unexpectedly and, as a matter of fact, nobody knows where she is. Her husband doesn’t know—or pretends he doesn’t,” he said with a knowing grin.
“Then she has disappeared!” I exclaimed.
“That’s just it. And they were always such a devoted pair. Little Oswald was the only thing she lived for.”
“Lived!” I echoed. “Then do you think she’s dead?” I asked quickly.
“Dead! Why should we think so? If she were, we should surely have seen it in the papers?”
“But your master has very funny fits sometimes,” I said. “I’ve heard about his eccentric ways.”
“Of course he has. He’s overburdened with money—that’s what it is. Mr. Henderson looks after all his affairs. Mr. De Gex has no regard for money. Mr. Henderson attends to everything. Phew! I wish I were a millionaire! I find it hard enough nowadays to pay the butcher and baker and make both ends meet.”
“And so do I,” I said, laughing. “But, tell me, where is the young lady who used to live here—Mr. De Gex’s niece?”
“His niece! I don’t think he has a niece.”
“Miss Gabrielle Engledue.”
“Who’s she? I’ve never heard of her,” was the man’s reply.
I described her, but he shook his head.
“To my knowledge Mr. De Gex hasn’t got a niece,” he said.
“Were you here five weeks ago?” I inquired.
“Five weeks ago? No. I and my wife went away down to Swanage to see her sister. The master gave us a fortnight’s holiday. Why?”
“Oh—nothing,” I replied. “I merely inquired as I want to clear up a mystery—that’s all.”
“What mystery?”
“The mystery of Miss Engledue—your master’s niece,” I answered.
“But I’ve never heard of any niece,” he said.
“A young lady of about twenty-one with dark hair and eyes, and a beautiful complexion,” I said.
But the old servant’s mind was a blank.
“Of course, sir, many people come to visit Mr. De Gex. Horton would know them, but I don’t. When the master is in town the servants are here, and I’m down in Cornwall at the castle.”
“Then you are only here as caretaker when the family is away?”
“That’s it, sir,” he said. “But what is the mystery about this young lady? You said you knew Mr. De Gex, and yet you wanted to look over the house.”
“Yes,” I responded with a laugh. “I have my own object—to clear up the mystery of Mr. De Gex’s niece.”
“Well, as far as I know, he has no niece! But you could easily find out, I suppose!”
The man was evidently no fool.
“Of course I don’t know who comes here, or who stays here when the family is in town,” he went on. “I simply come up and look after the place with my wife.”
“Then you were away in Swanage during the first week of November?” I asked very seriously.
“Yes, we went down on the last day of October, and we were back here in the middle of November. My wife’s sister was very ill, and her husband didn’t expect her to live. So I remember the dates only too well.”
“Then the family were in town on the date I mention.”
He considered a moment.
“Oh! Of course they were. They must have been.”
I glanced again around the room, full of amazement and wonder.
The man’s failure to give me any details regarding the extremely attractive girl who had died upon his mistress’s bed held me gripped in uncertainty. The mystery was even more puzzling now that I had started to investigate.
As I stood in that room a thousand strange reflections flashed across my mind.
Why had I, a mere passer-by, been called in so suddenly to be taken into the intimacy of the millionaire’s household? Was it by mere accident that I had been invited in, or was it by careful design? I had lost five thousand pounds by foolish speculation, and yet I had regained it by being party to a criminal offence.
Again, who was the pretty, dark-haired girl who had first uttered those hysterical screams, and then, while fully dressed, had died upon Mrs. De