left a note, was awaiting me.

As we sat together before a cheerful fire I told him of my lapse into
unconsciousness, of my loss of memory, but I did not explain all that
had happened, for, as a matter of fact, I had no desire that anyone
should know of my guilt in posing as a medical man and thus becoming
implicated in the mysterious death of Gabrielle Engledue.

My friend sat and heard me, smoking his pipe in silence.

"Extraordinary!" he said. "You ought to go to the police, Garfield.
You were doped--without a doubt. But what was the motive? I've been
very worried about you. When you had been missing a week they sent
over from your office, and I then went to the police at Hammersmith.
They made every inquiry and circulated your description. But they
could discover no trace of you. I'll have to report that you've been
found."

"Yes, do so to-morrow morning," I urged. "I don't want the police
following me about--thank you," and I laughed, rather grimly perhaps.

During the hours that I lay awake that night a thought suddenly
crossed my mind--an idea which next day I promptly put into execution.

I went to Somerset House, and there searched the register of deaths.
At first my efforts were in vain, but at last I discovered what I
sought, namely an entry that a young woman named Gabrielle Engledue,
single, aged twenty-one, of unknown parentage, had died of heart
trouble at No. 9 Stretton Street, Park Lane, on the night of November
the Seventh, the body having been cremated five days later!

I pursued my inquiries in various quarters that day, and further
discovered that the funeral expenses had been defrayed by some person
named Moroni. There had been only two mourners, of whom Moroni had
been one.

Still feeling very ill, I was compelled--after reporting to the
office--to remain at home for the three days which followed.

To the two heads of the firm I fear the story that I told must have
appeared somewhat lame, yet they exhibited no disbelief, but on the
contrary sympathized with me in my strange and unaccountable
affliction.

In a drawer in my bedroom lay the five thousand pounds in bank notes
just as Oswald De Gex had given to me. I, of course, said nothing of
them to Harry. But once or twice I drew them from the old envelope in
which I had placed them, and turned them over in wonder.

I decided that they would be safer in the bank, but I hesitated to
place them to my credit, so I at last put them away i