William Le Queux

“ If I knew anything of this young lady who, you said, died in my wife’s bedroom in Stretton Street, and at whose bedside you and I stood together, I would tell you. But I really don’t.”
He tossed his cigarette hastily out of the open window.
“No,” he added. “I won’t hear any more. I haven’t the time or the inclination to listen to the wanderings of any insane person. I’ve had enough!”
“And so have I!” I retorted. “You are trying to mislead me by affecting ignorance of my very existence, but I don’t intend that you shall escape!” ”

“ 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.” ”

“ He was, no doubt, feeling very uneasy. And even a millionaire can feel uneasy when faced with a witness of his own offence.
“Mr. De Gex, I am not talking rubbish,” I said in all seriousness. “You appear to forget that night when your wife deserted your son in Westbourne Grove, and then laughed at you over the telephone from a public call-office.”
He looked at me very straight with those deep-set eyes of his.
“Really,” he exclaimed. “That is quite a new feature in the affair. Let me see, what did I tell you?”
“Your man, Horton, invited me, a mere passer-by, into your house in Stretton Street. ”