my brain. I had heard of cocaine, of opium, and of other drugs, and it occurred to me that I might be under the influence of one or the other of them. Yet the idea was absurd. I was Mr. De Gex’s guest, and I could only suppose that my sudden seizure was due to natural causes—to some complication of a mental nature which I had never suspected. The human brain is a very complex composition, and its strange vagaries are only known to alienists.
I seemed stifled, and I sat clutching the arms of the big leather chair when my host at last entered, smiling serenely and full of apologies.
“I’m awfully sorry to have left you, Mr. Garfield, but my agent called to do some very urgent business. Pray excuse me, won’t you?”
“I—I’m awfully sorry!” I exclaimed. “But I—I don’t feel very well. I must apologize, Mr. De Gex, but would you ask your man to order me a taxi? I—well, I’ve come over strangely queer since you’ve been out.”
“Bah! my dear fellow,” he laughed cheerily. “You’ll surely be all right in a few minutes. Stay here and rest. I’m sorry you don’t feel well. You’ll be better soon. I’ll order my car to take you home in half an hour.”
Then he crossed to the telephone, rang up a number, and ordered his car to be at the house in half an hour.
Then he rang for Horton, who brought me a liqueur glass of old brandy, which at my host’s suggestion I swallowed.
Mr. De Gex, standing upon the thick Turkey hearthrug with his cigar between his lips, watched me closely. Apparently he was considerably perturbed at my sudden illness, for he expressed regret, hoping that the brandy would revive me.
It, however, had the opposite effect. The strong perfume like pot-pourri had confused my senses, but the brandy dulled them still further. I felt inert and unable to move a muscle, or even to exercise my will power. Yet my sense of sight was quite unimpaired.
I recollect distinctly how the dark keen-faced aristocrat-looking man stood before me alert and eager, as he gazed intently into my face as though watching the progress of my seizure which had so completely paralysed me.
Of a sudden a loud shriek sounded from the adjoining room—a woman’s wild shriek of terror.
My host’s thin lips tightened.
The scream was repeated, and continued.
“Excuse me,” he exclaimed as he left the room hastily.
I sat with ears alert. It was surely most strange that the well-known millionaire, whose name was on everyone’s lips, had confided in me as he had done. Why had he done so?
The screams of terror continued for about half a minute. Then they seemed stifled down to heavy sobbing. They seemed to be hysterical sobs, as of someone who had suffered from some great shock.
I was full of wonderment. It was unusual, I thought, that such noises should be heard in a sedate West End mansion.
There was a long-drawn-out sob, and then silence. A dead silence!
A few moments later Mr. De Gex came in looking very flushed and excited.
“My troubles are ever on the increase,” he exclaimed breathlessly. “Come, Mr. Garfield. Come with me.”
He assisted me to my feet and led me out into the corridor and into the adjoining room.
To my surprise it was a great handsomely furnished bedroom with heavy hangings of yellow silk before the windows, and a great dressing-table with a huge mirror with side wings. Along one side were wardrobes built into the wall, the doors being of satinwood beautifully inlaid.
In the centre stood a handsome bed, and upon it lay a young and beautiful girl wearing a dark blue serge walking dress of the latest mode. Her hat was off, and across her dark hair was a band of black velvet. The light, shining upon her white face—a countenance which has ever since been photographed upon my memory—left the remainder of the room in semi-darkness.
“My poor niece!” Mr. De Gex said breathlessly. “She—she has been subject to fits of hysteria. The doctor has warned her of her heart. You heard her cries. I—I believe she’s dead!”
We both moved to the bed, my host still supporting me. I bent cautiously and listened, but I could hear no sound of breathing. Her heart has ceased to beat!
He took a hand mirror from the dressing-table and held it over her mouth. When he withdrew it it remained unclouded.
“She’s dead—dead!” he exclaimed. “And—well, I am in despair. First, my wife defies me—and now poor Gabrielle is dead! How would you feel?”
“I really don’t know,” I whispered.
“Come back with me into the library,” he urged. “We can’t speak here. I—well—I want to be perfectly frank with you.”
And he conducted me back to the room where we had been seated together.
I had resumed my seat much puzzled and excited by the tragedy that had occurred—the sudden death of my host’s niece.
“Now, look here,” exclaimed Mr. De Gex, standing upon the hearthrug, his sallow face pale and drawn. “Your presence here is most opportune. You must render me assistance in this unfortunate affair, Mr. Garfield. I feel that I can trust you, and I—well, I hope you can trust me in return. Will you consent to help me?”
“In what way?” I asked.
“I’m in a hole—a desperate hole,” he said very anxiously. “Poor Gabrielle has died, but if it gets out that her death is sudden, then there must be a coroner’s inquiry with all its publicity—photographs in the picture-papers, and, perhaps, all sorts of mud cast at me. I want to avoid all this—and you alone can help me!”
“How?” I inquired, much perturbed by the tragic occurrence.
“By giving a death certificate.”
“But I’m not a doctor!”
“You can pass as one,” he said, looking very straight at me. “Besides, it is so easy for you to write out a certificate and sign it, with a change of your Christian name. There is a Gordon Garfield in the ’Medical List.’ Won’t you do it for me, and help me out of a very great difficulty? Do! I implore you,” he urged.
“But—I—I——”
“Please do not hesitate. You have only to give the certificate. Here is pen and paper. And here is a blank form. My niece died of heart disease, for which you have attended her several times during the past six months.”
“I certainly have not!”
“No,” he replied, grinning. “I am aware of that. But surely five thousand pounds is easily earned by writing out a certificate. I’ll write it—you only just copy it,” and he bent and scribbled some words upon a slip of paper.
Five thousand pounds! It was a tempting offer in face of the fact that I had just lost practically a similar sum.
“But how do I know that Miss——”
“Miss Engledue,” he said.
“Well, how do I know that Miss Engledue has not—well, has not met with foul play?” I asked.
“You don’t, my dear sir. That I admit. Yet you surely do not suspect me of murdering my niece—the girl I have brought up as my own daughter,” and he laughed grimly. “Five thousand pounds is a decent sum,” he added. “And in this case you can very easily earn it.”
“By posing as a medical man,” I remarked. “A very serious offence!”
Again my host smiled, and shrugged his shoulders.
“Well,” he said, after a pause. “Here is the certificate for you to copy. Reject my offer if you like;