Gurdon had no voice to reply, for the man in the armchair was the
handsome cripple--the hero of the forefinger.




CHAPTER VII

THE WHITE LADY


Gurdon looked hopelessly about him, utterly at a loss for anything to
say. The whole thing had been so unexpected, so very opposite to the
commonplace ending he had anticipated, that he was too dazed and
confused to do anything but smile in an inane and foolish manner. He had
rather looked forward to seeing some eccentric individual, some elderly
recluse who lived there with a servant or two. And here he was, face to
face with the man who, at the present moment, was to him the most
interesting in London.

"You can take your time," the cripple said. "I am anxious for you to
believe that I am not in the least hurry. The point of the problem is
this: a well dressed man, evidently a gentleman, is discovered at a late
hour in the evening in my cellar. As the gentleman in question is
obviously sober, one naturally feels a little curiosity as to what it
all means."

The speaker spoke quite slowly and clearly, and with a sarcastic emphasis
that caused Gurdon to writhe impotently. Every word and gesture on the
part of the cripple spoke of a strong mind and a clear intellect in that