The Stretton Street Affair. Le Queux William

winter morning was sunny and brilliant with a clear blue sky, and as I drove through the streets, past the marble-built Duomo with its wonderful campanile, the city was agog, for it happened to be the Festa of the Befana.

      I had left my bag at the station, and the taxi took me to Fiesole, the high-up little town outside which lived the “rich Inglese” – Oswald De Gex.

      Long before we arrived the driver pointed out the huge, mediæval country house situated among the olives and vines, and commanding extensive views over Florence and the Arno, with the blue mountains beyond. It was a great white house with red tiles and overhanging eaves, palatial indeed in its dimensions, and for centuries the summer residence of the head of the great family of Clementini, from whom the English millionaire had bought it fifteen years before, together with all its pictures, tapestries, and antiques, with the farms adjoining.

      On entering the great gates of seventeenth century wrought iron, we found ourselves in a glorious old-world Italian garden, with a wonderful marble fountain, and a good deal of antique statuary, and then driving through the extensive grounds – past a lake – I at last rang the bell.

      Quickly the great iron-studded door was opened by an elderly Englishman in livery, to whom I gave my card, and asked to see his master.

      The man, without hesitation, ushered me through a huge marble-built hall, with a wonderfully frescoed ceiling, into a large room hung with priceless tapestry, and furnished with old gilt chairs covered with faded green silk damask.

      I, however, took very little note of my surroundings, so anxious was I to again meet my host of Stretton Street face to face.

      Not long did I have to wait before the door opened, and he stood before me.

      “Well, Mr. Garfield?” he asked quietly, as he advanced. “To what do I owe the honour of this visit?”

      “Ah!” I cried. “Then you recollect me, I see! You know my name?”

      “Yes. It was upon your card,” was his quiet reply. “But, forgive me, I do not recollect ever having met you before!”

      I held my breath. I tried to speak, but for the moment words failed me, so angry was I at his cleverly pretended ignorance and flat denial.

      CHAPTER THE FOURTH

      FACING THE MUSIC

      “Do you seriously mean to say that you have no knowledge of me?” I demanded angrily, looking the millionaire straight in the face.

      “Yes, sir,” he replied. “I seriously mean what I say. But, tell me,” he demanded resentfully, “why are you here to claim acquaintance with me?”

      “Do you really deny you have ever seen me before?” I asked, astounded at his barefaced pretence of ignorance.

      “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.”

      “The death of Miss Gabrielle Engledue!” he cried. “I really don’t understand you, Mr. – Mr. Garfield!”

      At mention of the name I saw that he started, but almost imperceptibly. The man was certainly a most perfect actor, and his protestations of ignorance were, indeed, well-feigned.

      “Then you actually deny all knowledge of the young lady!” I said.

      “I know no lady of that name.”

      “But she is your niece.”

      “I have only one niece – Lady Shalford.”

      “And how old is she?”

      He hesitated for a few moments. Then he answered.

      “Oh! She must be about thirty-five. She married Shalford about ten years ago, and she lives at Wickenham Grange, near Malton, in Yorkshire.”

      “And you have no other niece?”

      “None – I assure you. But why do you ask such a question? You puzzle me.”

      “Not more than you puzzle me, Mr. De Gex,” I replied with pique. “It would be so much easier if you would be frank and open with me.”

      “My dear sir, you seem to me to have a bee in your bonnet about something or other. Tell me, now, what is it?”

      “Simply that you know me very well, but you deny it. You never thought that I should make this unwelcome reappearance.”

      “Your appearance here as a mad-brained person is certainly unwelcome,” he retorted. “You first tell me that you visited me at Stretton Street. Well, you may have been in the servants’ quarters for all I know, and – ”

      “Please do not be insulting!” I cried angrily.

      “I have no intention of offering you an insult, sir, but your attitude is so very extraordinary! You speak of a girl named Engledue – that was the name, I think – and allege that she is my niece. Why?”

      “Because the young lady is dead – she died under most suspicious circumstances. And you know all about it!” I said bluntly.

      “Oh! perhaps you will allege that I am a murderer next!” he laughed, as though enjoying the joke.

      “It is no laughing matter!” I cried in fury.

      “Why not? I find all your allegations most amusing,” and across his dark handsome face there spread a good-humoured smile.

      His was a face that I could never forget. At one moment its expression was kindly and full of bonhomie, the next it was hard and unrelenting – the face of an eccentric criminal.

      “To me they are the reverse of amusing,” I said. “I allege that on the night of Wednesday, November the seventh last, I was passing your house in Stretton Street, Park Lane, when your man, Horton, invited me inside, and – well, well – I need not describe what occurred there, for you recollect only too vividly – without a doubt. But what I demand to know is why you asked me in, and what happened to me after you gave me that money?”

      “Money! I gave you money?” he cried. “Why, man alive, you’re dreaming! You must be!”

      “I’m not dreaming at all! It is a hard fact. Indeed, I still have the money – five thousand pounds in bank notes.”

      Oswald De Gex looked at me strangely. His sallow face coloured slightly, and his lips compressed. I had cornered him. A little further firmness, and he would no doubt admit that we had met at Stretton Street.

      “Look here, Mr. Garfield,” he said in a changed voice. “This is beyond a joke. You now tell me that I presented you with five thousand pounds.”

      “I do – and I repeat it.”

      “But why should I give you this sum?”

      “Because I assisted you in the commission of a crime.”

      “That’s a lie!” he declared vehemently. “Forgive me for saying so, but I can only think that you are not quite in your