curios, and upon the mantelpiece stood several framed photographs
which showed this to be the sanctum of a wealthy bachelor who was no
misogynist. A map of the Indian Empire occupied the larger part of one
wall. The grate was empty, for the weather was extremely warm, and a
green-shaded lamp on the littered writing-table afforded the only
light. The air was stale, for both windows were closed and fastened.
Smith immediately pounced upon a large, square envelope that lay beside
the blotting-pad. Sir Crichton had not even troubled to open it, but my
friend did so. It contained a blank sheet of paper!
"Smell!" he directed, handing the letter to me. I raised it to my
nostrils. It was scented with some pungent perfume.
"What is it?" I asked.
"It is a rather rare essential oil," was the reply, "which I have met
with before, though never in Europe. I begin to understand, Petrie."
He tilted the lamp-shade and made a close examination of the scraps of
paper, matches, and other debris that lay in the grate and on the
hearth. I took up a copper vase from the mantelpiece, and was
examining it curiously, when he turned, a strange expression upon his
face.
"Put that back, old man," he said quietly.
Much surprised, I did as he directed.
"Don't touch anything in the room. It may be dangerous."
Something in the tone of his voice chilled me, and I hastily replaced
the vase, and stood by the door of the study, watching him search,
methodically, every inch of the room--behind the books, in all the
ornaments, in table drawers, in cupboards, on shelves.
"That will do," he said at last. "There is nothing here and I have no
time to search farther."
We returned to the library.
"Inspector Weymouth," said my friend, "I have a particular reason for
asking that Sir Crichton's body be removed from this room at once and
the library locked. Let no one be admitted on any pretense whatever
until you hear from me." It spoke volumes for the mysterious
credentials borne by my friend that the man from Scotland Yard accepted
his orders without demur, and, after a brief chat with Mr. Burboyne,
Smith passed briskly downstairs. In the hall a man who looked like a
groom out of livery was waiting.
"Are you Wills?" asked Smith.
"Yes, sir."
"It was you who heard a cry of some kind at the rear of the house about
the time of Sir Crichton's death?"
"Yes, sir. I was locking the garage door, and, happening to look up at
the window of Sir Crichton's study, I saw him jump out of his chair.
Where he used to sit at his writing, sir, you could see his shadow on
the blind. Next minute I heard a call out in the lane."
"What kind of call?"
The man, whom the uncanny happening clearly had frightened, seemed
puzzled for a suitable description.
"A sort of wail, sir," he said at last. "I never heard anything like
it before, and don't want to again."
"Like this?" inquired Smith, and he uttered a low, wailing cry,
impossible to describe. Wills perceptibly shuddered; and, indeed, it
was an eerie sound.
"The same, sir, I think," he said, "but much louder."
"That will do," said Smith, and I thought I detected a note of triumph
in his voice. "But stay! Take us through to the back of the house."
The man bowed and led the way, so that shortly we found ourselves in a
small, paved courtyard. It was a perfect summer's night, and the deep
blue vault above was jeweled with myriads of starry points. How
impossible it seemed to reconcile that vast, eternal calm with the
hideous passions and fiendish agencies which that night had loosed a
soul upon the infinite.
"Up yonder are the study windows, sir. Over that wall on your left is
the back lane from which the cry came, and beyond is Regent's Park."
"Are the study windows visible from there?"
"Oh, yes, sir."
"Who occupies the adjoining house?"
"Major-General Platt-Houston, sir; but the family is out of town."
"Those iron stairs are a means of communication between the domestic
offices and the servants' quarters, I take it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then send someone to make my business known to the Major-General's
housekeeper; I want to examine those stairs."
Singular though my friend's proceedings appeared to me, I had ceased to
wonder at anything. Since Nayland Smith's arrival at my rooms I seemed
to have been moving through the fitful phases of a nightmare. My
friend's account of how he came by the wound in his arm; the scene on
our arrival at the house of Sir Crichton Davey; the secretary's story
of the dying man's cry, "The red hand!"; the hidden perils of the
study; the wail in the lane--all were fitter incidents of delirium than
of sane reality. So, when a white-faced butler made us known to a
nervous old lady who proved to be the housekeeper of the next-door
residence, I was not surprised at Smith's saying:
"Lounge up and down outside, Petrie. Everyone has cleared off now. It
is getting late. Keep your eyes open and be on your guard. I thought
I had the start, but he is here before me, and, what is worse, he
probably knows by now that I am here, too."
With which he entered the house and left me out in the square, with
leisure to think, to try to understand.
The crowd which usually haunts the scene of a sensational crime had
been cleared away, and it had been circulated that Sir Crichton had
died from natural causes. The intense heat having driven most of the
residents out of town, practically I had the square to myself, and I
gave myself up to a brief consideration of the mystery